


Icarus Rising

by coffeeandcas



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Bottom Will Graham, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dark, Depression, Domestic Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Empathy Disorder, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal is Hannibal, Heavy Angst, Injury, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Night Terrors, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, Romance, Self-Harm, Sleepwalking, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Therapy, Top Hannibal Lecter, Violence, self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-07-15 16:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16067039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: Will Graham’s life is spiralling out of control. His night terrors are becoming so traumatic that he turns to self-harm in a desperate attempt to cling to his sanity. After an accident at home leaves him badly injured, he confides in Hannibal, and their relationship takes a dramatic turn that he could never have predicted.It turns out obsession is the perfect game for two.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally intended this to be fairly short, but it's already at ten chapters and I'm just getting started. Thank you to my wonderful beta **shellz** for all your help so far! Oh and I'm serious about the slow burn tag, just FYI ;)
> 
> Feedback and concrit is always welcome ♥

 

_“The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted.”_

Thomas Harris

*

He’s tired. So, so unbelievably tired.

It’s the type of tired that seeps deep into bone, eats away at muscle, rubs grit into the eyes and dries out the mouth. He struggles to string sentences together and eye contact is out of the question as it involves effort beyond the bare minimum. He sways where he stands, his hands tremble, and he’s always cold no matter how many layers he piles on. Jack calls, he answers, he goes through the motions and it just makes it all worse. The fire in his house is always lit and he’s taken to curling up on the rug in front of it with a dog or two, trying to sleep there since his bed is too cold, too large, and too lonely. He subsists on a diet of coffee and toast. Whiskey helps, the cheap stuff in cheap glass bottles from the nearest 7/11 - five miles away. And cigarettes, too, although he tries to avoid buying too many of those. The taste they leave in his mouth lingers and only hard liquor chases it away.

Nowhere feels safe. His own home feels too large, his car too cramped, the woods too spooky and Quantico has too many eyes watching his every move. His lecture theatre, his most favoured place outside of Wolf Trap, becomes somewhere he now fears and has to force himself to enter, his lectures now mechanical and wooden and he bolts from the hall the moment he’s finished so nobody has the chance to speak to him.

He wakes in odd places, at peculiar times of the late night and early morning. On the bathroom floor, his thighs soaked with his own cold piss. In the bathtub, fully dressed, although he’s certain he went to bed in his t-shirt and shorts. In the woods, freezing and barefoot, fingers numb and tear tracks frozen to ice on his cheeks. Lying on his back on his own driveway, staring up at the stars with Buster nosing fretfully at his side. Once, twice, three times with his gun in his hand, loaded and with the safety off, which frightened him out of his wits. Once naked in the middle of the nearby field, feet bloody from walking across the frozen ground and he bandaged them with unhappy, jerky movements at the fireside back at home. It’s horrible, ghastly, and brings him to tears more often than he would like to admit.

So he stops sleeping, whenever he can. He keeps himself awake as long as humanly possible, reading or with the radio on so loud it keeps him from dozing off, eventually dropping off only when he’s so tired his eyes refuse to stay open and his limbs stop cooperating with him. And when he does, the nightmares are so bad that he wakes drenched in sweat and, more often than not, his own urine. Images of black feathered stags drenched in blood stay behind his retinas all day and he sees it in between blinks while he works cases. Sometimes it takes a human form, dead-eyed with blackened skin, and that’s worse somehow because it comes with a sense of familiarity that he can’t shake off. Like he knows this creature, has sat down to dinner with it before, as though it knows him intimately…

“Will?”

“Yes,” he answers absently, eyes fixed on the glass paperweight he’s holding and staring straight through it into the smooth grain of the mahogany desk beneath. Hannibal’s office is cold and he moves a little closer to the fireside, just a step. Not enough to be noticeable, he’s sure. He’s still holding the paperweight, a heavy glass globe that he turns over and over in his hands, watching the firelight flicker across the kaleidoscope of colours within it.

“Are you cold?”

“No,” It’s a reflexive response. Show no fear, no weakness, nothing. Pretend everything is fine. Carry on. Carry on.

“You’re standing very close to the fire, Will. Be careful it does not catch your clothing.”

He glances down and sees that the edges of his boots are on the hearth and that indeed his arm is so close to the flames that he can smell the subtle acrid burn of singeing polyester. He steps away, shivers and tries to cover it by rolling his shoulders.

“Our hour is almost up,” Hannibal is sitting in his usual chair, one ankle resting on his other knee and exposing a pinstriped sock. His fingers are steepled, elbows on the armrests, and his expression is colt neutral as always as he regards Will, standing in the middle of his office having said very little at all during their session. “You haven’t talked to me much today. Is there nothing of note you wish to discuss?”

“No,” he lies, eyes downcast as he replaces the paperweight on a pile of pencil drawings protected by a thin layer of tissue paper. Distracted by their presence, he inclines his head and turns one towards him. It’s of a building, Italian Renaissance architecture he thinks, and it’s incredibly beautiful with the finest detail he’s ever seen. He isn’t one for art, hasn’t visited a gallery in his life unless you count visits to crime scenes, yet something in this image moves him and he can’t stop staring at it. He lowers a fingertip until it’s just above the fine pencil lines and traces the shape of a balconette, high above a busy city street.

“Florence.” Hannibal is at his side, leaning in close and looking at him rather than the painting. “A city I feel a tremendous pull to. A beautiful place, should you ever consider visiting.”

Will pulls his finger back as though burned, his trance-like state of admiration interrupted. He shoves his hands in his pockets instead to remove the urge to touch.

“I’ve never left the country.”

“Travel is very soothing, Will. It broadens the mind and opens us up to new experiences, fresh challenges. It can be very cathartic.”

“I don’t think my mind needs broadening any more, particularly at the moment.” He thinks of the stag and fixates on the paperweight again. “Besides, if I ever tried to take a vacation Jack would be hauling me back the second the airplane doors open to work a murder investigation with him or tend to some cold case that just has to involve the in-house FBI freakshow.” His words are so bitter they almost sting his lips. “My life isn’t my own, not these days.”

“That is worrisome, Will. You feel as though you are not in control of the events in your own life?”

He snorts, louder than he intended, and turns away so he doesn’t have to see Hannibal’s offended expression. “My life hasn’t been my own for a long time, Hannibal. Ever since Jack Crawford materialised in my lecture hall. I’m the toy that he brings out to play with when none of his others are working properly. Wind me up, watch me go.”

“I do not believe that’s how he sees you. He sees you as his pièce de résistance, the man who can help him when all others have failed.”

Will manages to keep the scorn out of his tone but not his expression - turned to the fireplace again as he is, he doesn’t think Hannibal can see him. “I think you’ve been spending too much time reading your own work, Doctor. Not everything comes up shiny under psychoanalysis. Some things are just the way they are.”

His eyes then flick up to a framed photograph of the Eiffel Tower on the mantelpiece and Hannibal’s amber eyes, staring at him in the reflection. He’s momentarily disarmed, especially when he realises how close Hannibal is to him; he’s followed him the few steps towards the fireplace. He certain, for a moment, that he sees Hannibal incline his head, still holding his gaze, and inhale deeply.

Will turns, thrown, to find Hannibal where he left him beside the desk, watching him with a concerned frown, his eyes shining amber in the lamplight.

“Did you… I thought I saw…” he rubs his eyes beneath his glasses, knocking them askew. “I think I should go home.”

“If you’re certain you feel well enough to drive. You look ill, Will. Try and get some rest at home.”

Slightly hysterical laughter threatens from behind his teeth and he drops his gaze to try and will it away, unable and unwilling to catch or keep Hannibal’s eyes. He’s worried that if he does the older man will see straight through him and know that Will is breaking. The strain of life in every form is wearing him down and he can feel himself unravelling. To what end, he doesn’t yet know.

“I will.”

“I’ll see you next week.”

“Alright.”

The door closes behind him, Hannibal’s private exit for his clients blissfully quiet and free of company. It’s snowing again outside and he lifts his collar against the cold.

That evening he makes scrambled eggs and toast and sits outside on the porch to eat, the dogs playing by his feet and chasing sticks that he throws for them. On his thigh rests his handgun, just in case. The food tastes like cardboard, clogs his throat and weighs down his stomach and he wishes he hadn’t eaten at all. His eyes close of their own accord and he tries valiantly to keep them open, afraid of what he’ll see as he falls asleep yet lulled towards dreamland by the cold and his uncomfortably full stomach.

He’s drifting again, he can feel it. The stag moves in the woods, feathers instead of fur, human eyes watching him from behind the frozen branches. At his side sits a blackened human-shaped creature with great antlers stretching out towards the sky like arms praying to a god that refuses to listen. The tip of Will’s cigarette glows in the darkness and his gun feels cool under his palm.

It isn’t a conscious decision, what he does next. It’s an almost familiar movement, as though he’s done it a hundred times before and more. The cigarette finds his lips and is held there as he mechanically folds back the sleeve of his shirt, noting the patch of sweat at the elbow crease. His forearm is smooth and pale from lack of sunlight, from months spent hidden beneath shirts and sweaters and jackets and coats. The hair is dark but not thick and vanishes to almost nothing as he turns his arm to look at the inside of it, focusing in on a section of skin just below the strap of his watch. Easy to hide. Easy to access.

He breathes in, holds it, releases the cigarette from his mouth to his fingertips. Then, on the exhale, he presses the glowing end to his own skin, watching as the red glow slowly, slowly extinguishes itself into his flesh. It doesn’t hurt for a second or two, even though he watches as his skin reddens, blisters, darkens with ash. A tightness in his chest eases. His eyes no longer burn. Everything around him goes still and quiet.

Then a low, hurt sound is dragged from his lips only to be whipped away into the trees by a cold, cruel wind.

*

That night, nothing. No sleepwalking, no nightmares that wake him up screaming and clutching at thin air, and although he does stir and sit up in a puddle of sweat and urine somewhere around sunrise it’s a reasonably peaceful way to wake up in comparison to his mornings of late. His wrist stings, smarting horribly under the bandage he had wrapped around it, and he rests his thumb lightly over the covered injury. Winston jumps up on the bed and noses at him, sitting hunched over in his own filth. Light is filtering into the room, dust particles swirling up into the air around him, and the room is barely above freezing. The fire has died sometime in the night and the dogs are huddled together in a pile on the floor, sharing body heat. Will shivers. Winston whines.

He presses his thumb down into his wrist, agony lancing at once up his arm and he hisses, shocked at how much it hurts. The pain is worse than when he did the act and it steals his breath from his lungs as spots dance in front of his eyes. Winston whines and presses his wet nose to Will’s fingers and he draws his hand back as though shocked. The pain continues and he stares down at his arm, as though he can see beneath the bandage to the wound festering beneath it.

He sleeps again, some time later, and it’s empty, hollow, and he wakes up exhausted.

The days drag, his lectures passing by in blurred fragments, and he drags himself home exactly seven days later just before dinner time, his stomach aching with hunger but so tired he can do nothing more than strip down to his undershirt and boxers and collapse on his bed. He should call Hannibal, cancel their session, or perhaps an hour’s sleep will deliver to him enough energy and motivation to dress again and drive into Baltimore.

Two of the dogs leap up and curl at his feet and he reaches a shaking hand out to stroke them, pain lancing through his hand as the muscles beneath the burned flesh tense and flex. He feels nauseated by the thought of what he’s done to himself. In the cold light of the early evening, curled up alone in his isolated house, he feels more lonely than he can ever remember feeling in his entire life. He normally relishes solitude, uses it as a retreat and a safety net, only allowing a few people to get close and even then he keeps a wall up to make sure they don’t stray too near. But now, just once, he wishes he had someone here to help chase the nightmares off, to take his hand and tell him that what he did to himself was foolish but that they understand. Closing his eyes against the pain of loneliness, he allows himself to drift off, and the stag comes.

He dreams of fishing, of the river running red with blood and catching rotten fish at the end of his rod, the flies he crafts so carefully disintegrating to dust between his fingers as he tries to tie them. He dreams of walking, walking so far that his feet bleed and weight drops from his frame until he can see the bones of his hands and his ribs through his t-shirt. He dreams of finding his dogs dead in their beds, eyes eaten away by blowflies, maggots causing the remains of their flesh to pulsate grotesquely beneath their pelvic bones, jaws rotting and skin sloughing off in great wide flaps. The stench is vile, sweet and cloying. He touches them all, tries to stroke them but his hands come away slick with blackening blood. He tastes bile in his mouth, swallows it down with wide eyes as his breath burns in his lungs.

He dreams of starlight and shadow, distant howls across the fields and the woodland beyond the house crawling with death and decay. The wind bites at his skin, sifts through his hair, turns his tears to ice on his cheeks. It feels as though his blood is freezing in his veins.

He blinks, blinks again, a sudden sense of vertigo tugs at him and he cries out in shock as the sky opens up before him, dead light from the stars gazing back and the black silhouettes of trees on the night time horizon seeming too far below him; he looks down, frightened. He’s on the roof outside his bedroom window, barefoot, pyjama pants soaked with snow at the hem, and he’s so close to the edge that his toes curl over into blank space.

His equilibrium shaken by his sudden return to consciousness he twists violently, reaching blindly behind him for something to grab onto to steady himself, but his hands close on nothing at all and he sways precariously. Looking back, it was too late even before he woke. He was too close to the edge and too fatigued to draw himself back.

Will falls.

He staggers, steps off into the empty air and his body goes rigid as he goes over the edge of the rooftop, the frozen ground coming up to meet him at an alarming rate. In the distance, a dog howls and he parts his lips to cry out. The force of the impact knocks the air from his body and sends him spiralling down into a deep, blank unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Friday night. Seven-thirty comes and goes. Hannibal had opened the door exactly on time, his usual small, welcoming smile genuine at his lips as he began to greet Will, not expecting for a moment that he might find his waiting room empty. But silence greets him and he frowns, checking his watch. Seven thirty-one. No Will.

He closes the door and sits down at his desk, adjusting his diary until it’s perpendicular to the edge of the desk. He adjusts his pen similarly. Then he flicks through his sketches until he finds the one Will was admiring the previous week: Florence in the summer. Will would look spectacular walking down the streets with the sun on his skin and his forearms bared to the summer heat. Not swathed in so many layers he sweats through them, not twitchy and jerky and hiding from the world. It’s a pleasant vision, one he’s happy to linger on for a while.

Seven forty-six. No sign of Will, and irritation begins to coil in Hannibal’s gut. He reaches for the phone and dials, but nobody answers his call. He leaves it three minutes longer then dials again. Then flips open his Rolodex to select another number.

It’s a long drive to Wolf Trap, over an hour in the Friday evening traffic, but concern doesn’t deter Hannibal even for a moment. The Bentley purrs down the city streets that soon give way to sprawling suburbs crammed with families and young couples, closeted safely away in their houses, and eventually they melt away too until he’s driving down country roads with nothing but Bach on the radio to keep him company. The night is growing cold, winter drawing in quickly, and he looks forward to the warmth of Will’s house should he be invited in. He’s well aware that he’s crossing every doctor-patient boundary by calling on Will at home but concern overrides all sense of propriety. When Jack had radiated cluelessness as to Will’s whereabouts, when Alana’s shrug and frown of disquiet had been palpable down the phone line, and when Will’s cell phone had just rung and rung and rang with no low grunt signalling someone at the other end of it, Hannibal had pulled on his cashmere-wool blend overcoat and locked up his office. 

Now, as he pulls up outside Will’s house, the overwhelming sense that something is wrong grows to a level that he feels physically within his chest. There are no lights on in the house, the dogs’ barking can be heard from inside the car with the windows up, yet Will’s truck stands steadfast with a light covering of snow on it and clearly hasn’t moved all night. Hannibal gets out of the Bentley and locks it, turning with some trepidation towards the house. He normally doesn’t feel fear, doesn’t allow tendrils of concern to penetrate his conscious thoughts, but tonight is different because Will is different. He’s enigmatic and magnetic and perpetually angry these days, and Hannibal is intrigued by him. To what end remains to be seen, but he’s certain he doesn’t want any untimely injury or illness to befall the younger man.

He takes only a few steps towards the house before he sees him: Will is lying on his side at the foot of the porch steps, facing away from Hannibal, and he isn’t moving. Hannibal quickens his pace, breaks into a jog and kneels at Will’s side on the hard ground, a long-dormant sensation he recognises as panic clutching at his diaphragm. Will’s eyes are closed, his lips and nose bloody, and Hannibal glances around for any sign of what might have happened. Nothing, no footprints to or from the house or any evidence at all to tell him how Will ended up on the frozen ground so late on in the evening. Then the sound of the dogs howling from somewhere above him reaches his ears and he glances up, seeing the open bedroom window, realizing in an instant what must have happened.

“ _ Mon dieu _ ,” he murmurs, perturbed, sliding off his coat and draping it over Will’s shoulders, reaching for his wrist to check his pulse and stalling when he finds white bandages barring his way. He takes the other wrist instead, counts for thirty seconds, then lifts Will’s eyelids to check his pupils. At that touch, the younger man stirs with a groan, head lolling in the dirt and fingers twitching in spasms. His blood looks black in the moonlight. “Will. Lie still, please.”

“Hann-Hannibal?” Will’s slurring, sounding drunk, eyes open in slits and attempting to focus. “What happened?”

“I believe you fell off your roof. Will, try not to move, let me have a look at you.” 

He attempts to keep the younger man still with a hand on his arm but Will moves jerkily, struggling to push himself up onto an elbow with a low groan of pain. A dark patch stains the ground where his head had been seconds before, and when he turns his face to Hannibal the moonlight shows his bloody face in entirety - a laceration splits his temple, blood still dripping from the wound. He likely hasn’t been lying here long. Will’s insistence on sitting up appears absolute so Hannibal slides an arm beneath his shoulders, helps him until he’s leaning heavily against Hannibal with his head tipped back, face upturned to the sky. Every breath seems painful. Hannibal adjusts his coat, making sure it covers Will as much as possible, and just holds him there for a moment, kneeling in the mud.

“Can you stand? We must try and get inside and out of the cold,” he murmurs into the dark curls, inhaling the scent of sweat, blood, dogs, and dirt from the man in his arms. Will nods stiffly and Hannibal has to half-lift him onto his feet where his knees promptly buckle and he sags, staggers and almost falls again. “Easy, Will. Allow me to assist you.”

Will’s eyes are unfocused as they stare at him and he says nothing at all when Hannibal hooks an arm beneath his knees and lifts him easily into a bridal carry. He doesn’t weigh as much as he should for a man his height and Hannibal notices the way his pyjama pants slide low on his hips, exposing a sharp line of bone beneath pallid skin. His head lolls against Hannibal’s shoulder and his fingers grip the coat, holding it close as though afraid to let it slip through his fingers. 

Inside, Hannibal lies him down on his couch and kneels before him, pushing his hair back to examine the cut on his head. Will shifts, moving slowly and favouring his right side, making low sounds of pain through his teeth.

“Where does it hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Will fists his hand in Winston’s fur; the dog has come up to croon at his feet, eyes dark and worried. Hannibal considers kicking it aside but doubts Will would appreciate the gesture. “Not hurt.”

“I disagree.”

He lifts the edge of Will’s t-shirt, mildly surprised that he’s allowed to, and Will leans back against the threadbare cushions with a sharp exhale of pain. Bruises are blooming on his ribcage, cracked bone possibly hidden beneath them, and he’s holding one arm close to his chest as though it’s causing him some pain.

“May I?” 

Hannibal takes his hand, extends it slowly and listens to every hiss of discomfort, takes note of every flinch. Nothing broken, but a jarred shoulder certainly, and probably some ligament damage to go with it. It’s not his dominant arm, which is a lucky blessing. Hannibal slides a finger under the waistband of Will’s pyjama pants, catching sight of bruising splashed across the top of his hipbone before he’s batted away.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt too much. I was careless, that’s all.”

“Careless? Carelessly walking across your roof at…” Hannibal consults his watch. “Nine o’clock at night?” He slides out of his suit jacket and folds it carefully, draping it over the back of a chair as he loosens his cufflinks, rolling up first one sleeve then the other. “Where is your medical kit?”

“I’m-”

“Do not tell me again that you’re fine. At least let me clean the blood from your face and take a look at your head. Your medical kit, please.”

“Under the sink in the bathroom.” Will shifts to lie against the arm of the couch, bringing one leg up and the other stretched out, dirty, bare foot seeking the warmth of the rug though it lies by a cold fire. Winston lies down and Will’s toes curl into his fur.

Ten minutes pass and Hannibal has lit a fire, made Will a cup of sweet tea with honey, wiped the blood from his face and hands, and unwrapped the bandage from his wrist amid weak protests.  The house is warming and Will’s thawing out, though his pain seems magnified as he wakes up more and begins to assess his own injuries.

“What happened to your wrist?” Hannibal asks, almost conversational as he bathes the wound and wipes away the dirt smeared across Will’s palm. Blue eyes grown dark with pain and fatigue flash with trepidation and look away. “Tell me.” Hannibal’s instruction is quiet but firm. He already knows, recognises the shape and depth of the wound, but he wants to hear it from Will’s lips. Wants to know exactly why. 

“Nothing. Careless with a cigarette.”

“Nothing about this injury was careless. It is deep, the position fixed.” Hannibal uses a cotton pad to wipe antiseptic across the circular burn then sits back, tidying away the bloodied bandages and remaining silent until Will glances up at him. “Why did you burn yourself?”

“I…” Will seems about to argue then clearly decides there’s little to no point. He bites his lip, looks contrite and, in that moment, younger. Like a lost child, reprimanded for running off. “It helped. That’s all. I haven’t done it since.”

“Helped you how?”

“It helped me sleep, if you must know!” Will snaps, cheeks growing pink under Hannibal’s stare. He clasps the cup with both hands, the cigarette burn on his skin shifting as his muscles move beneath it. “It seemed healthier at the time than pickling my liver in whiskey!”

For a moment, Hannibal is thrown by the phrase and an image of fried liver, pickled in a beetroot brine springs to mind. He tosses it back and locks it up tight, that section of his mind palace one that he visits only on rare, very dark occasions. Now is neither the time nor the place. 

“You are aware that self-harm is not considered a healthy coping mechanism by any psychiatrist in any specialty.” Hannibal pauses, allows his words to sink in. “Why did you not tell me you were struggling to sleep?”

“It didn’t feel relevant.”

“And now that you’ve risen from your bed in your sleep and walked off the edge of your roof, does it feel relevant?” Hannibal watches as Will’s fists clench around the cup, as the bolt of his jaw works through his clenched teeth. “That fall could have been fatal. You know that.”

“Well, it wasn’t. I’m fine. Bruises never killed anyone.”

“I could show you various cadavers that have succumbed to much less. Coroner’s reports detailing more grievous injuries caused by far less a distance.”

“Hannibal. Don’t.”

“Blunt force head trauma, brain bleeds, broken necks leading to full paralysis and asphyxiation, shattered femurs severing the femoral artery…”

“Stop.”

“Broken ribs puncturing the aorta, untreated internal bleeding leading to sepsis and necrosis…”

“Hannibal! Enough!” Will’s eyes are aflame with fury and distress and he physically recoils into the couch, turning his head away as though he can block out Hannibal’s words by force of will alone. “Stop it! I didn’t do this on purpose!”

“No, you didn’t, but by omitting your struggles with your sleep from our therapy sessions you put yourself in danger. You have turned to self-flagellation as a means of dealing with it, and it is evidently not working.” Hannibal makes a sweeping gesture over Will’s battered, bruised body. “Why will you not accept help?”

“I don’t need your help.” Will says through gritted teeth. “And I don’t need your judgement. You don't get to tell me what I should or shouldn’t share with you. You’re my therapist, not my keeper.”

“And as your therapist, do you not think that I have your best interests at heart?” Hannibal sits back, frustration causing tension in the lines of his body. He wants to shake Will until his teeth rattle, punish this insufferable boy for his misdemeanor in not telling Hannibal precisely everything he wants to know.

“I think you should go,” Will’s voice is distant and he gazes out of the window at the clear, starry sky. It hasn’t snowed in hours. He hugs himself, wounded arm closest to his chest, and sits with one foot tucked up beneath him. Hannibal has the bizarre, unfamiliar desire to wrap him in a blanket and sit with him all night, watching him for signs of pain and easing them any manner he can.

“I don’t think leaving you is a wise idea. You likely have a concussion.”

“I’m fine. I’ll go to the hospital if I feel like I need to. You should leave.”

“And how will you get there?”

“Buster can drive,” Will bites out, pain making him sarcastic, drawing out rudeness. Displaying his fear. “I want to be alone. I want you to leave.”

“Will-”

“Leave!” Will’s voice cracks on the single word and when he finally drags his gaze across to meet Hannibal’s, there are tears in his eyes. “I said, go! Don’t make me call the cops.”

Hannibal holds out his hands, palms up, a tightness in his chest unsettling him. He’s unfamiliar with any form of emotion beyond bland detachment when it comes to so many people in his life, yet his instincts are on fire right now with the need to stay, to comfort, to protect. To savage anyone who comes too close to Will right now, no matter what their intentions. And it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, his confusion giving way to something much more familiar and much safer, easier for him to understand: anger. A low-burning anger tightening in his throat and gripping his vocal chords. It’s an anger that he could easily unleash on Will, dragging him from the couch to the floor and making him regret his dismissal of Hannibal, his gratefulness, his words, his existence. Will is weakened, suffering from bouts of intense terror and battling to keep his emotions in check. It would be laughably simple to overpower him in this state. He could drag him back up the stairs by his hair, throw him onto the bedroom floor and watch his face pale in fright. Slam the door, keep the infernal dogs away. Will’s neck would break easily, a lack of muscle making his body malleable beneath Hannibal’s hands. One on the back of his skull, the other beneath his chin, staring down into his eyes as he does, forcing eye contact onto someone who despises it in their dying moments. He could leave him paralysed, sit and watch the fear mount in his eyes and his protests remain trapped behind his teeth. He would send him over the edge of the roof again, make it look like an accident. Jack might even be the one to find his body. Sleepwalking gone awry. It would be so, so easy.

Hannibal stands, retrieves his coat and pretends to ignore a smear of blood on the collar from Will’s temple. He drapes it over one arm and inclines his head just a little, a gesture of faux submission. Let Will think he’s in control, just this once. He can allow him this.

“Very well. I apologise if I have upset you in any way, it was far from my intention. If I may, I suggest you stay awake for a while but try to rest. Take some pain medication. If you begin to feel drowsy, nauseous…”

“Hannibal. I know what to do.” Will’s hands are fisted so tightly that his knuckles glow white and his face is ashen. His face is profiled in the light from the now flickering fire and he looks a decade older, detached from himself and lonely in spite of how roughly he’s pushing Hannibal away. “I’ll see you next week. I’m sorry I missed our session. You can invoice me.”

“Take care, Will. Try and rest. Goodnight.”

Hannibal leaves the house quietly, the dogs sniffing around his legs as he departs. He waits until he’s settled back in the comfort of the Bentley to find the still-tacky patch of Will’s blood on his coat and runs a finger through it. He lifts it to his lips and tastes, savouring the flavour, closing his eyes briefly. Sticky-sweet. Like honey.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may slow down a little over the next week. Thank you to everyone reading so far, your comments mean the world!

Every bone, muscle, tendon, blood cell, atom, and inch of skin on Will’s body hurts. He focuses all his efforts into lying as still as possible and not moving beyond blinking - even that feels excruciatingly exhausting - and lies on his bed staring up at the cracks in the ceiling and the watermark left by a long-ago leak that he patched up during a roaring storm. He can’t remember dragging himself to bed after Hannibal left, can’t remember stripping off his filthy clothes and crawling into bed naked and dirty. All he can remember is Hannibal’s hands on his chilled, sweat-drenched skin.

He vomits, twice, and drifts in and out of consciousness, forgetting then recalling Hannibal’s parting words and the multiple ways of dying from a fall that were likely conjured up to scare him into submission. A concussion is likely if not definite. He wonders how likely it is to kill him. Fairly, if he’s sustained a brain bleed and doesn’t seek treatment. He wonders how long he’ll have if that’s the case. The old stab wound in his shoulder aches, protesting at being the first body part to hit the frozen ground outside. The dogs whine and cry, worried, but he can’t summon the strength to get up and feed them. He can’t keep down pain medication and after coughing up the first handful of tablets in a mouthful of watery bile onto his bedroom floor he abandons the attempts altogether.

Jack calls. There’s been a murder in some middle-of-nowhere town three hours away, the fourth in a month. The victim neatly eviscerated while still alive then strangled with her own intestines. They had found her tongue in her stomach. Will tells him no and hangs up before Jack can formulate a squawked protest. Then he calls him back and asks for Hannibal’s cell phone number, hanging up immediately after scrawling it down just as Jack gets into his stride. He leaves it a while before summoning up the text message screen on his phone and typing, with shaky hands and one eye closed in an attempt to focus. He sends it without thinking too hard, without trying to talk himself out of it, and closes his eyes again, drifting. His wrist smarts, the burn calling to him, and he remembers Hannibal’s gentle fingers brushing over the wound. The resignation - not shock - in his voice as he asked Will why.

Hannibal’s touch on his bare skin had been something Will hadn’t expected to feel, now or ever. When he had blinked his way back into consciousness, Hannibal’s face had been the first thing he saw, and the feeling of the older man at his back, propping him up and holding him, had been something he wanted to sink into. Embarrassment had clawed at his psyche when he had been lifted and carried, but it had felt so good to be taken care of that he’d kept his mouth shut. The gentle, almost tender touches that Hannibal had bestowed on him as he wiped the blood and dirt from his skin had made him tingle all over. He’s touch starved, and he knows he is. He’s so isolated, keeps himself that way, and hasn’t felt the contact of another living human for… years. He’s not exactly sure how long and doesn’t try too hard to work it out. Now, he feels Hannibal’s phantom touch to his ribs, his hip, his temple… and he misses the contact.

One good thing has transpired from the fall: he’s in so much pain that the stag stays away, hidden from view in the back of Will’s mind. Pain is a focal point for him, drawing his mind to the present, to reality, and holding it there in spite of its struggles.

He wants to do it again. And he isn’t sure whether ‘it’ is something harmless like burning himself with another cigarette or dramatically throwing himself out of a window just to seek the attention. He wants the pain, but he also wants Doctor Lecter’s hands back on him, wants him to soothe the ache away. But at the same time, he’s afraid of what will happen once the pain is gone, once there’s nothing left to ground him to reality. He’s afraid of what he’ll do when he’s not in control of his consciousness and his nightmares take over. He’s afraid of never waking up again.

Which is why, ultimately, he knows he’ll hurt himself again just to keep himself alive.

*

**Unknown Number [01:16]: I’m sorry.**

Hannibal reads the message twice, not a flicker crossing his face to indicate it had any effect on him whatsoever. He’s sitting by the fire in his drawing room, pencil and creamy notepad resting on his crossed legs, a glass of Highland Park on the coffee table before him, eighteen years aged. It tastes like nectar on his tongue. He puts his phone down and continues drawing, the pencil moving of its own accord over the paper and he’s intrigued to see what his hand shows him. He smudges the odd line here and there with the tip of his index finger, touching it to his thumb to rub the graphite off. An image is taking shape on the artist’s pad before him.

It’s a man, a man younger than himself, hips inclined forward yet upper body twisted away, hair a tangle of unruly curls and a faint scar from a long-healed stab wound visible in the muscle of his shoulder and his arms reach up to clasp the back of his neck. He’s nude, the angle of his hips making for easy display of his cock, soft against his left thigh, balls hanging heavy beneath it amid a shock of dark hair between his thighs. The image has a classical feel and Hannibal regards it with interest, taking in each curve of muscle, line of bone, ensuring every detail is true to life. Will Graham is beautiful when imagined like this, and Hannibal has spent a long while imagining the lines of the young man’s body beneath his clothes. Attending to him as he lay on his couch, pained and tense, had sparked within Hannibal the need to draw him, to pay homage to him in portrait form, bring to life the image he has of Will pain-free and lost in relaxation, a state the younger man is unlikely to achieve any time soon. He wonders how Will would react should he ever catch sight of the drawing - or the many, many more he keeps in his study upstairs, each depicting Will in various stages of undress, some sexualised and some merely erotic, delights for Hannibal to look on when the mood takes him.

He places the pad down, removes the drawing from its binding, and sets it down on the coffee table. He’ll burn it tomorrow. It isn’t quite as perfect as all the rest, and really is an insult to Will. He picks up his cell phone and considers his response, the last of his whiskey rich on his tongue.

**Hannibal Lecter [02:21]: How are you feeling, Will?**

He sidesteps accepting Will’s apology on purpose. He’s still smarting from being dismissed and doesn’t feel inclined to forgive the infraction just yet, nor does he want to tell Will it’s fine and not to worry about it. Hannibal doesn’t lie. Not directly, anyway, and not often. Only when circumstance truly requires it, and this one certainly does not.

He commits Will’s number to his address book feeling perversely possessive over it, wanting nobody else to have it but him. As he ascends the stairs, all the downstairs lights now extinguished, his cell phone pings with a response.

**Will Graham [02:26]: Sore. Trying not to fall asleep.**

A pause, then another ping.

**Will Graham [02:27]: How long does it take for a brain haemorrhage to prove fatal? Asking for a friend.**

**Hannibal Lecter [02:27]: You don’t have many friends, Will. None that would be asking such a question in the middle of the night unless you were at a crime scene. I assume you are not?**

**Will Graham [02:27]: I am not.**

Already tired of the back-and-forth texting, a method of communication Hannibal dislikes intensely, he sets his phone down and changes for bed. Silk pyjama pants in black, cashmere blend t-shirt. He doesn’t hang his clothing up as usual, however. It lies draped neatly over the chair next to his bed, just in case he requires it again before morning. He knows already that if Will requests his company again he will make the journey to Wolf Trap without hesitation.

He sits up in bed against the pillows and dials Will’s number.

“I doubt you have a brain haemorrhage,” he says when the call connects and listens to Will’s low grunt of acknowledgement. “Although I wish you had allowed me to examine you better. For my own peace of mind.”

“I’m fine.”

Hannibal considers the phrase, wonders how many more times he can stand hearing it before Will ends up in pieces in his basement, exsanguinated for proving so irritating.

“Please, Will. You can tell me the truth, I would prefer it. How much pain are you in?”

“Some.” There’s a shuffling sound and Hannibal imagines Will lying in bed. It’s very intimate, the pair of them in their separate beds talking on the phone in the middle of the night. Surpasses the lines of patient-psychiatrist relationship, that’s for sure. “Okay, more than some. It feels like I fell ten feet off a roof onto solid ground. Oh, wait, that’s exactly what happened.”

Hannibal smiles at his rough attempt to laugh at himself. There’s the sharp-witted Will he’s familiar with.

“Have you managed to keep down any pain medication?”

“Nope. I’ve thrown up twice.”

“Your body is shocked. It needs rest, recuperation. Sleep, when it’s safe for you to do so.”

Will mumbles something unintelligible and Hannibal frowns at the comforter draped over his legs. “Speak up, Will. I can’t hear you.”

“I said, it’s not as though I don’t dread falling asleep already. Now I have to worry about dying from a concussion, too.”

Hannibal bites his tongue so that he doesn’t correct Will, telling him it isn’t the concussion itself that proves fatal but everything associated with it. This isn’t the time for schooling.

“Why do you fear falling asleep?”

“Are you trying to psychoanalyse me, Doctor?”

“No more than usual.”

He’s certain Will smiles down the line. He imagines he does. The way the fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepen and his mouth pulls to something akin to a curve, barely showing his teeth. Will has a nice, if not reticent, smile.

He doesn’t expect an honest response. He’s certainly surprised when he gets one.

“I have nightmares. Night terrors. I wake up in strange places and can’t remember how I got there. It’s… unsettling.”

“How long have these night terrors been plaguing you?”

“Longer than you’ll be pleased with, I’m sure. Long enough.”

“Is that why you harmed yourself, Will?” Hannibal spears him deliberately with such a direct question. “To ground yourself to the present? To gain a focal point for your subconscious to tie itself to?”

There’s a long, long silence. Only the puff of Will’s breath against the mouthpiece of his phone and the scuffling whimpers of the dogs in the background let Hannibal know that the call hasn’t been disconnected. Then, predictably, Will shuts down.

“Goodnight, Hannibal.”

“Forgive me,” he speaks quickly in an attempt to stop Will from cutting him off. If so, he’s sure they won’t speak again tonight. But the instant, and no doubt visceral reaction tells him exactly one thing: he’s absolutely right in his ascertains. “I didn’t mean to upset you. We can discuss something else.”

“I’m not like that,” Will says heatedly; Hannibal hears him shift then groan a little in discomfort. “It’s not… I don’t… It isn’t what you think.”

“Let’s discuss it no further tonight,” Hannibal says gently. “You’ve had a traumatic evening. I do not wish to upset you further.”

“I’m not _upset_. I just…” Will exhales, hard. “I don’t want you thinking that of me.”

Hannibal frowns, bemused. “What do you assume I’m thinking of you?”

“That I’m _weak_.” Will spits the word out as though it’s burning his mouth and Hannibal blinks at how vicious he sounds. Nothing more comes down the line and Hannibal imagines him flushed, eyes bright, angry at Hannibal and angry at himself.

“Will,” he has to stop himself adding the moniker _my darling_ onto the end of it; it almost flows from his lips automatically. The intimacy he feels with the younger man is growing in leaps and bounds during this conversation alone. “You are far from weak. Anybody can see that. You deal with trauma beyond the bounds of most people’s imagination on a daily basis in your work, it is no wonder it follows you home at night. And it is no surprise if your coping mechanisms are not always in your own best interests.” He pauses, listens to Will breathe. “I can help you. If you want me to.”

The bedroom is bathed in soft orange light, the fireplace nothing more than glowing embers now. The whiskey lines his veins with warmth, relaxing him, and he reaches a hand out to the empty space on the opposite side of the bed, imagining Will lying there gazing up at him with sharp blue eyes, watching and cataloguing his every move. Mirroring his body language unconsciously. Giving eye contact as a gift.

Oh, what he would do with Will if he had him here now. What the sheets would be stained with if he had his way.

“I think I’d like to talk about something else now,” Will is murmuring and Hannibal obliges; he’s pushed the younger man far enough tonight. He’s certain he’s given Will plenty to think about.

They talk for another ten minutes and Will is pleasantly drowsy by the time they end their call. Hannibal bids him goodnight, tells him it should be safe for him to sleep as long as he wakes with his alarm in a few hours, and as the line goes dead he stares off into the fireplace before him, thinking.

Will’s fear is a beautiful thing. He could almost taste it when the confession of his night terrors spilled from his lips. If carefully tended, Will’s fear could be the making of him. Or he could break beneath Hannibal’s hands.

In his dreams, he couples with Will on a sheepskin rug beside the fire, their limbs gleaming with sweat as they steal kisses from each other’s mouths. Then, as Will’s eye close in a euphoric climax, Hannibal cuts his throat.


	4. Chapter 4

When Will harms himself for a second time it’s with a knife, sharp and glinting in the evening sunlight, and it happens in the space between one blink and the next. 

Nine days have passed since he fell from his roof and awoke to Hannibal’s hands on his skin, and three since his last therapy appointment - which he had cancelled at the last moment under a pathetic excuse about working a cold case for Jack and being snowed under paperwork. He had cancelled by text. Hannibal had called him immediately, no doubt to either check up on him or reprimand him for his rudeness, and Will had declined the call, too embarrassed and guilty to answer. He wonders how much Hannibal will end up invoicing him for at the end of the month and thinks of his meagre salary earned through lecturing. He doesn’t know how much Hannibal charges by the hour but he doesn’t imagine the most sought-after psychiatrist in the city comes cheap. 

He’s slept badly the last few nights, waking with a shudder and a cry, drenched in sweat and reaching for something he can no longer see. His hair sticks to his forehead and once he bites his tongue during his thrashing and it’s sore all day. He strips the bed in the dead of night, hips and shoulder aching from his fall, pins and needles plaguing his arm, collapses back down onto clean sheets and goes through it all again. The stag lurks outside doors and windows, snorting out great clouds of steam and coming closer and closer each night, it’s mere presence making Will’s skin crawl. 

It’s a painful and isolating way to spend his nights and more than once he fingers the keypad of his phone, burning cheek pressed to his pillow, thinking of his call with Hannibal. It has helped. The older man always helps. But he doesn’t call. He can’t bring himself to dial the number, too afraid of waking Hannibal, too humiliated to admit that he’s struggling again. They haven’t spoken since that night, the night Hannibal wiped his blood, stroked his hair, helped put him back together then talked to him until his eyes closed. To call now, in his hour of need, feels like a weakness he doesn’t dare afford himself. 

He’s chopping some leeks to fry with the catfish he’d caught that morning when it happens. He glances up, out of the window to check the whereabouts of the dogs, and staring back at him is a perfect reflection of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, a man he had been forced to kill months earlier. He whirls around, heart racing and knife in hand, to see his kitchen empty apart from Buster who stares up at him in mild confusion. Swallowing his panic he turns back, raising his eyes slowly to the window expecting to see himself staring back. He’d had visions of the man he’d killed right after it happened, and of the man’s daughter who had died with Will’s trembling hands at her throat as she bled out beneath him, but it had been months since he’d thought of either of them. What was the girl’s name? Amelia? No, Abigail, definitely Abigail. He blinks, breathes, and in the glass pane he meets the dead eyes of a bloodied man with multiple bullets embedded in his rasping chest. Garrett Jacob Hobbs utters one word, one agonisingly familiar word, and panic threatens to strangle him from within. 

_ See? _

Will leans heavily on the chopping board, eyes squeezed tightly shut, breathing through his nose. He doesn’t notice the pain in his hand until he pries his eyelids open and looks down: he’d slammed his hand down more forcefully than he’d intended and the knife has pierced the webbing of his hand between his thumb and forefinger. A pearl of blood is swelling up, trickling down onto the mashed leeks beneath his palm. It stings, smarts painfully when he flexes his fingers, but it isn’t deep enough to need stitches. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, glances back up to send Garrett Jacob Hobbs an icy glare for startling him so much he impales his hand on the knife - but the man is gone. He clenches his fists - one around the knife and the other purposely stretching the newly sliced skin so the cut bleeds more - and his vision seems to sharpen beneath the pain. He sees himself staring back as twilight falls outside, his eyes dark, bottom lip caught between his teeth, skin pale and brows furrowed. His heart is beating slower and he feels as though he can draw normal breaths now, like his lungs aren’t as constricted. His hand continues to bleed. 

Will looks down at the kitchen knife. It’s small, a paring knife picked up a thrift shop some time ago and carefully cleaned and sharpened until it could be of use. It has a cracked ivory handle and matches nothing else in his kitchen. He doesn’t remember why he bought it but now, as it glints in the light from his cheap kitchen lamp, he remembers why he likes it. It feels good in his hand, well-balanced, the handle smooth in his palm. It seems to press to his skin of its own accord. 

Will inhales deeply. Exhales, opens the cut on his hand further. Blood swells and spills over and the room becomes quieter as his world narrows down to just him and the knife, tunnel vision until all he can see is his own parted skin and the stainless steel blade sullied by his own fluids. He cuts a little deeper.

Outside, the dogs bark happily, chasing their tails and each other. 

Will lifts his hand up to the light, turns it this way and that, looking at the cut almost in wonder. It’s the same hand as the healing cigarette burn, the old stab wound, the jarred shoulder: his left hand, non-dominant. It feels as though a weight has lifted from his chest as he watches a trickle of blood make its way down over the joint of his thumb, over the strap of his watch, meeting the burn perfectly to pool there as though the two injuries were destined to meet. 

Night falls in the house. Later, standing naked under a lukewarm shower, Will uses the same knife to bring beads of blood to his thigh, so close to his femoral artery, just to see what happens. To test himself and experiment with his emotions. To stay safe. To stay sane. 

That night, the nightmares don’t come. 

*

“Don’t hang up.”

Will scrubs a hand across his face, turns over and promptly falls off the bed onto the floor with a grunt of shock. His phone skitters away under the bed and he lies still for a moment, dazed and entangled in his blankets, before freeing himself and fumbling for his phone, gazing at it like it’s an unexploded bomb about to detonate in his palm. The cut to the webbing of his hand throbs, dried blood crusting it, and he gazes at it with passive interest. He barely remembers doing it. 

“Will?  _ Will _ ! Are you there?”

“What time is it?” His words come out thick and coppery: he’s bitten his tongue in his sleep again. 

“Does it matter? Are you awake?”

“I am now.” He drags himself into a sitting position against the bed, phone to his ear, other hand propping his head up and sunk deep into his sweaty hair. It’s so wet he may as well just have come from a shower. “What is it?”

“I need you. Sorry it’s late, but I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.”

“It’s always important, Jack. And I told you no.”

“That was last time. This is now. I have a killer on my hands, Will, and I need your expertise.”

“Jack,” Agonised, Will covers his eyes with his hands. “I can’t. I’m sorry. It isn’t good for me, I’m not… I’m not feeling very well…”

“Neither was the twenty-one-year-old girl who was disemboweled while she was still alive. Neither was her mother who passed out when cops broke the news. Neither am  _ I _ , since I have six mutilated bodies, six grieving families, an unbearable amount of overtime on my payroll, and no leads. Take an Aspirin and get down here.”

The line goes dead. Will sits motionless with the phone to his ear until he grows chilled, then he lowers it and stares into space for a while longer. He can already feel it, the creeping distress that crawls from his stomach up his oesophagus to sour his mouth and he has to actively fight to regulate his breathing. Shadows twitch in the corners of his bedroom and he can hear the sound of cloven hooves outside the bedroom door. If he takes this case, he’ll suffer. If he goes to help Jack, he’ll put himself under strain he can’t handle. If he goes to catch a killer, it will consume him. 

Days have passed in a blur of sleep deprivation, caffeine overdoses, and bloody knife-points. The stag is furious at not being allowed entry to Will’s dreams, he can feel it lurking just out of sight behind the veil, stamping its cloven hooves and snorting steam from its nostrils. When it is allowed back in, there will be hell to pay.

He showers off the sweat and cuts himself on the thigh before he shuts off the water. He fixes butterfly tape across the cut to his hand, pulls his sleeves down on an attempt to cover it. He packs the knife in his messenger bag, dresses in multiple layers to keep out the cold and digs out his keys, wondering what’s on the radio. It’s a long, lonely drive to the BAU at two in the morning.

*

Jack presses a cappuccino into his hands the minute he walks through the door, takes him by the elbow and begins a run-down of the case so rapid that even Will’s eidetic memory struggles to retain all the important parts. The halls are quiet and cold at this time in the morning, the lights used sparingly and anyone he glimpses looks like the walking wounded. He supposes he fits right in. 

“... all of them within one month,” Jack is saying and Will tunes in, sipping the coffee and feeling it ignite in his veins, sharpening his focus. He wonders if anyone will know that he has an ivory-handled kitchen knife in his bag, or that his thighs are smarting from multiple cuts. Perhaps it shines from him like a neon beacon. He swallows, shakes himself, tries to listen. “It’s vicious but not savage. He takes his time with these girls. All of them the same age, same height, same build…”

“How far apart do they live?”

“Ten mile radius, no geographical pattern that we can tell. But that’s where you come in. Doctor Lecter is already here,” says Jack, stepping in front of Will and pushing open the door to the forensics lab. Will almost drops his coffee. 

“Doctor Lecter? I didn’t know… I didn’t realise he had been called in to consult.” He tries to cover his discomfort with a cough; Jack buys it.

“I need all the help I can get, Will, I told you that. You and Doctor Lecter make a good team. You're our best chance at catching this guy.”

And with that, Jack vanishes into the lab and Will trails behind, eyes already fixed on the man in the sharply tailored suit, overcoat neatly over one arm, staring impassively at the mutilated corpse on the steel exam table. Hannibal’s eyes move to him as he draws close and Will can’t read the emotion hidden behind them. Relief? Disappointment? Dispassion? Distaste? As always, it’s impossible to tell what Hannibal is thinking unless he allows it, an infrequent occurrence. 

“Good evening, Will. You made it here in good time.”

“Yeah. No traffic on the roads. It helps.” Will worries the cut in his tongue on his canines and purposely avoids eye contact with the psychiatrist. He focuses instead on the body spread out before him. 

“Alicia Miles, twenty-one, missing for six days before cops found her in the woods behind her home. A personal record for our killer: the missing girls are normally found after ten or twelve.” Zeller throws Will a courteous smile as he reads from his clipboard. “Found strangled, abdomen cut open in the shape of a cross, intestines removed and tied as a noose around her neck. Blood toxicity shows alcohol only, no drugs prescription or otherwise. Dead for about six, eight hours before a dog-walker found her.”

Will has circled the body while Zeller spoke, is now standing near her head, eyes glassy and looking through the closed eyelids of the dead girl instead of at them. He can already feel himself sinking. Around him, Beverly and Price throw ideas around, Zeller spars verbally with Jack over the behaviour of the local PD at the crime scene, and Hannibal just watches it all in silence. 

Will closes his eyes and time passes. 

“This one was different,” The words come slowly. He opens his eyes and lets his gaze travel over the girl, remaining impassive. Detached. It’s necessary. “He was different with her. She meant something different to him.”

“He killed her quicker because she meant something to him?” Beverly arches an eyebrow. “Sounds like hard luck to me.”

“He got scared,” Will says slowly and Jack stares at him. 

“Scared of what? Being caught?”

“Maybe. Or maybe scared of losing her. Maybe she tried to escape. Maybe she almost succeeded. He had to act quickly.” He falls quiet, staring. Thinking. 

“What was in her stomach when she died?” Hannibal inquires quietly. 

“Aside from her tongue? Not much. The remains of a meal, mostly digested. Alcohol, probably wine. Nothing to write home about.” Zeller frowns at his clipboard. 

“What meal?”

“Does it matter? She ate, she died. Why does it matter what she ate?”

“I merely wondered if it was the same as the other victims.” Hannibal would shrug if he were anyone else. Slowly, Will turns to look at them. 

“You think he’s dining with them. Giving them a last meal of their choice.”

“Perhaps. He may see them as a romantic conquest. A dinner date. It would explain the alcohol.” 

“No evidence of sexual assault.” Beverly shakes her head. “Why would he bother with all that? Why not just slaughter them and be done with it?”

“He was being kind…” The words flow from Will’s lips without his consent. “He thought he was treating them well. He wanted to treat them well. They were important to him.”

He moves to the opposite end of the table, studying the girl as he does. Pale skin, long dark hair, intimate parts covered neatly by rectangles of cloth but no evidence of assault means he doesn’t need to look any closer. There’s a tattoo on her inner ankle and he squints at it. The zodiac sign for Cancer. 

“I’ll need to see the crime scene. And everything you have on the other victims.”

“I’ll have them ready for you first thing in the morning. Can you cancel your classes for the week?”

“Sure, Jack. Anything for you.” The sarcasm isn’t missed and Jack’s expression darkens, but Will doesn’t care. “I’m going home, I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“You can’t stay? We have plenty to go through here, and-”

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Will surprises himself with his own force, and Beverly looks up at him with a frown of concern. “I need time to think, Jack. Space. Give me an hour or two and I’m all yours.”

“Fine.” Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Take all the time you need.” He doesn’t mean it. “Local PD have the crime scene locked down, forensics have already swept the place. We’ll just carry on here while you go and get some shut-eye.”

“Fine.” Will finishes his coffee, disposes of it in the nearest trash can, and turns away from the incredulous stares of Price and Zeller. He isn’t always this obtuse, it’s almost out of character, so no wonder they’re staring at him as though he’s grown a second head. He finds he doesn’t have the energy to care.

“What happened to your head, Will?” Zeller asks suddenly and Will flinches, instinctively lifting a hand to cover the healing wound. The hand he cut. Zeller’s eyes go to the butterfly tape but he says nothing. 

“Nothing. I was working on a boat and stood up under the bow. Careless, really.”

Careless. A familiar excuse, these days, and one that everyone in the room seems to buy except for one person, one man who continues to watch him as though he’s beneath a magnifying glass, pinned there for study. 

“Will, may I speak with you for a moment? Privately?” Hannibal asks from close to his shoulder and Will starts, shaking his head. He doesn’t want them to be alone together. Something tells him he won’t like the results of the conversation if they are. Behind them, Price and Zeller have lost interest in him and begun squabbling. 

“I’m going home, Hannibal. I need a few hours shut-eye before I come back here.”

“You’re sleeping better?” Hannibal looks as though he wants to say more but refrains at Will’s withering look. Yet his eyes still hold a note of understanding that leaves a bad taste in Will’s mouth. He doesn’t want to be understood, yet he craves it more than his lungs crave oxygen. But giving into that craving would be a danger in itself. “Let me walk you to your car at least.”

“It’s not far, I think I can manage.” Fear of being questioned by Hannibal, of being alone and interrogated by him is making him rude, he can see it in the furrow of the older man’s brow, the way his shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. “I’ll see you on Friday. Seven thirty sharp.”

“You will not cancel this time.”

It isn’t a question and Will turns away. He can already feel his conscious mind slipping, warping, threatening him with oncoming nightmares should he dare close his eyes when he gets home. The dead girl on the table blinks at him, smiles, and he tries to breathe through his tightening throat. He thinks of his knife, tucked safely into the lining of his bag. He wonders if he can wait until he reaches the safety of Wolf Trap. 

“I won’t cancel. Goodnight, Doctor Lecter.”

He’s almost at the door by the time Hannibal answers and he can’t bring himself to turn and respond. The door closes on Hannibal's parting words. 

“Good morning, Will.”


	5. Chapter 5

The crime scene is cold and dark, cordoned off with police tape, and Will stuffs his hands in his pockets to try and warm them against his thighs. He’s in a long grey overcoat and scarf, wishing he had worn a hat to keep his head from the biting wind. The frosted leaves crunch beneath his boots as he picks his way in Jack’s wake, ducking under tree branches and side-stepping fallen logs. In the distance at their rear, Alicia Miles’ family home stands on the edge of fields and farmland, the wooded copse only a few hundred yards away. He had brought her here, arranged her body, and left her. Likely while her parents were at home, likely while they were holding each other and weeping, praying for their only daughter who would never return. 

He had read the file in the car on the way here after declining Hannibal’s formal offer of a ride to the scene. He had opted instead to go with Jack under the guise of discussing the case, but he knows Hannibal wasn’t fooled for a second. It’s clear he’s avoiding him. Even Beverly has noticed and jostled his shoulder in a friendly manner as she asked what Hannibal Lecter had done to upset him so. He had gritted his teeth, told her nothing was wrong, and moved out of touching distance. 

The file was detailed, as always. Hand-written notes from Zeller and Price, printed forms, statements from the family and friends, photographs of the deceased clipped to the front page. Her waxy complexion made Will’s skin crawl; he can picture her in life all too clearly. Empathising with the killer is one thing, but empathy with the victims he tries to avoid whenever possible. It’s too traumatic, reliving their murders through their own eyes. It’s caused the worst of his nightmares in the past. 

“Will?” Jack’s voice jolts him back to the present and he refocuses on the ground in front of him. “Got anything for me?”

He shakes his head, the world coming back in slow-motion. He had been so low in thought that he had nearly walked straight into Hannibal, who looks entirely out of place in his prim attire, expensive overcoat and shined shoes. He mutters an apology and steps to one side, feeling the dark eyes boring into his temple. He clenches his fists in his pockets. 

“No. I need a minute. Several minutes. As long as you can give me.”

Jack clears the crime scene until Will stands alone in the forest, breath puffing out in front of him in clouds. He’s standing right where Alicia Miles was laid to rest; if her body was here, his boots would be just beside her head. 

He closes his eyes and the pendulum swings. 

*

“There’s something we’re missing here,” Zeller says, pen tucked behind his ear as he frowns at the lab report. “There has to be.”

“You think?” Will snaps, his headache making him tetchy and irritable. He massages his temples and drops his gaze when Zeller and Beverly gape at him in suspense. “I meant, if there wasn’t we would have caught this guy by now. We’d all be home watching TiVo.”

“Nice to know you’re as normal as the rest of us,” Price smirks, not unkindly. Will doesn’t bother to correct him; he’s never had cable TV, and never intends to. He rubs his eyes, taking his glasses off and holding them by one leg. 

“All young women of the same age,” Hannibal muses from his position beside Alicia Miles’ body. He’s been doing slow circuits of all the corpses for a while now; they’re all lying on individual gurneys with drapes covering their modesty, all similarly pale and waxy. If Will relaxed his eyes without his glasses, they could all be carbon copies of the same girl. 

“They had different circles of friends, they attended different schools, they worked vastly different jobs,” Hannibal is still talking, musing, standing at the head of the second victim - Mary-Anne Preston. His hand is stretched out close to her hair, another inch and he could stroke it. “They had all celebrated their twenty-first birthdays only this year. Something about this particular age…”

Will goes motionless and his eyes glaze over for a fraction of a second before he snaps back to reality.  _ Celebrated _ . The word has lodged itself in his brain like a bullet and now images are flickering past his open eyes like someone skimming through a catalogue at high speed. 

“Their birthdays,” he says slowly, and everyone turns to look at him. “How did they celebrate their birthdays?”

“Probably playing beer pong and drinking themselves unconscious like every other twenty-one-year-old,” says Zeller with a smirk. “Why?”

“They all turned twenty-one one month after the other. It’s a definite pattern, there must be some significance to it. Did they have a party? Or go to the same bar? Restaurant? Invite the same person? Because if so…” Will’s eyes trail over the victims. “We may have found our link.”

The next hour is spent scrambling for any and all information they can get, speaking to friends and relatives and going through every report with a fine-tooth comb. Will and Hannibal remain in the lab, standing close to each other but not saying a word, each lost in thought. Will wants to edge closer, wants to touch, but Hannibal is standing stiffly at his side and neither looking at him nor speaking to him. A distance has opened up between them, one of Will’s making, and he doesn’t know how to bridge it. When it was him doing his best to avoid Hannibal, it was fine. But now that Hannibal is giving him the cold shoulder he feels shaky with the need to talk, to grip his arm and turn him to face him, to apologise and ask if they can return to the way they were - whatever that was. But he doesn’t, and the hours stretch on.

Eventually, the doors crash open and Zeller and Beverly walk in together with exuberant, triumphant gleams in their eyes. Beverly is waving a sheet of paper in Will’s direction and he takes it, frowning down at her neat print.

“They all used the same events company for their parties,” she says in a rush. Hannibal leans in to look over Will’s shoulder, keeping a polite distance. Will wishes he would either move back or take a step closer. “Scarlett Rose Events Inc. Run by a Marley Broadacre, his address is on the bottom of the sheet.” She smiles at Will and he attempts to return it. “We got him!”

They all pile into cars, Hannibal electing to return to his office and asking Jack to keep him informed when the subject is in custody, and Will rides in silence, fearful. The last time he approached a subject he was forced to draw and fire his weapon and Garrett Jacob Hobbs is yet to let him forget it. Jack talks into his radio as he drives, instructing Beverly and her team to wait in their car until he signals them.

“We want to use the element of surprise,” he says to Will who barely listens. “He might not know we’re coming for him. We don’t want him to run.”

He nods, distracted, watching the trees zip past outside. 

“I could be wrong, Jack.” He murmurs, receiving a sharp look in response. Part of him hopes he is. But the pieces fit together too perfectly for it to be more than a coincidence and he swallows a lump of trepidation. They turn into Broadacre’s street and Will wipes his sweaty palms on his pants leg, leaving a smear of moisture.

The house is neat, tidy, larger than he had imagined, with a well-kept front garden and a wrap-around porch. The windows are clean and a brand new Mercedes sits in the drive. He was picturing something more run-down than this, but history has taught him that when it comes to the killers he catches, appearances rarely mean a thing. They exit the car together, Beverly pulling up across the street in her SUV, and climb the steps. Jack rings the bell and they listen to low chimes echoing throughout the sprawling house.

Footsteps sound in the hallway and Will holds his breath. Then the door swings open and a plump, smiling woman with blonde ringlets and a little too much lipstick smiles curiously out at them and his heart plummets into his boots. Dealing with the spouse of a potential killer is never easy, and the woman looks cheerful and jolly, someone Will very badly doesn’t want to upset. She looks like a neighbour he had as a child who always worse a baking apron and smelled of vanilla frosting. He pushes the memory away and flips his badge open to show her. At his side, Jack does the same.

“Ma’am, we’re looking for Marley Broadacre. Is he at home?”

“Oh well, you’ve found her!” She has a lilting Texas twang, the type that oozes Southern hospitality and her glittering white smile matches it. “Marley at your service, gentlemen. Are you planning a party I can help y’all out with?”

She extends a hand to Jack who shakes it numbly as the pieces that had previously fallen into place shatter and splinter all around Will like broken glass. Marley is a woman. And as robust as she is, she’s not responsible for the killing of six young women. He just knows, without spending a moment longer on her doorstep, that they’ve reached a dead end.

“It’s not her,” Will hears his own voice leave his lips, his conviction following. He’s studying the woman’s pink, smiling face and every atom on his body is in agreement: this isn’t the killer they’re hunting. “It’s not her, Jack.”

And, ignoring the woman’s confused frown and Jack’s instantly livid expression, he shoves his hands in his pockets, turns his back, and walks down the stairs and away. He can hear Jack apologising profusely for the inconvenience, the woman frantically asking what their visit was all about, and a moment later his arm is gripped and he’s roughly spun around to see Jack, eyes flashing from beneath the brim of his hat, staring him down coldly. He tries to jerk away but is held fast and Jack’s expression darkens. 

“You’re more erratic than usual, Will, and that’s saying something.” Jack backs him up until Will is against the car, his arm still held tight. “Get it together.”

“Or what? I’m off the case? Go ahead, Jack. Fire me.”

“You know I can’t do that.” Jack’s dark eyes flash angrily. “I need you.”

“You need what I can do for you,” Will spits. “You don’t need  _ me. _ Nobody ever does.”

“This is no time for a pity party, Special Agent Graham. Have a breakdown on your own time.” Jack’s grip tightened and for one very real moment Will thinks he’s going to hit him. “Do your goddamn job. Find me this killer.”

“Then stop treating me like a badly behaved dog and let me do it! I can’t perform on command, Jack, no matter how badly you want me to! Leave me alone, let me work!”

“You did work. And you got it wrong. Get it right, Will. Before we end up with another body on our hands.”

Anger sparking behind his rib cage gives Will the sudden burst of energy to yank his arm free, and he twists away from Jack in a fury. He turns and stalks away down the street, hands in his pockets and his collar turned up against the cold, ignoring Jack’s shout of anger in his wake. He can find his own way back to the BAU. The wind whips at his hair, sending dark curls tumbling into his eyes, and the first flicks of wet sleet obscure his vision through his glasses.

Jack can go fuck himself. He’s nobody’s lap dog. 

*

He doesn’t take baths very often, seeing them as a needless luxury he neither needs nor deserves, but tonight his aching muscles command that he does so. He’s got a sore throat and his eyes are burning, his body threatening him with illness should he continue to abuse it as such, and the invitation of a long soak in warm water is one he can’t refuse. He adds a handful of bath salts that he was given one Christmas, the scent of sickly-sweet vanilla quickly filling the air coiling in with the steam. He strips quickly, leaving his clothes in a pile, and avoids looking down at his body as he climbs in and submerges himself. He knows he won’t like what he sees. 

He didn’t bother returning to the forensics lab. He had picked up his car, eyed Hannibal’s Bentley parked beside it with trepidation, and decided to go home. The day has given him plenty to think about and his mind is racing; he needs space and time to process it all, to try and draw conclusions he hasn’t yet reached. Alicia Miles’ face swims behind his closed eyes, pallid and waxy in death, and he pictures her lying amid the leaves in the woodland, shrouded, laid to rest carefully, reverently, by the man who had stolen her life. 

He sinks lower in the water, lower still, the temperature so hot it’s almost scalding, until he’s completely submerged, eyes closed, cocooned by the warmth, breath held tightly within his lungs until it begins to burn. A small string of bubbles escapes through one nostril. His kneecaps are out of the water, legs bent to allow the rest of his body room to sink lower. The sound of the dogs scratching and yipping echoes now, distant. His lungs ache with urgency yet he can’t bring himself to break free from the water. It holds him fast, simultaneously pinning and cradling him, and not for the first time he wonders what it would feel like to drown. 

He opens his eyes and stares upwards through the water, expecting the yellow glow of the cheap bathroom light but it’s obscured by a dark shape looming ominously into view. A shape with a long face, antlers curving up and away from its head, glowing red eyes and mouth falling open with bared teeth, waiting to strike.  _ Will, _ it whispers to him, it’s voice invading his mind like a parasite.  _ Will. See? _

With a cry that leaves his mouth in a blurted, hollow bubble, Will catapults himself to a sitting position and splashes water everywhere, blinking it from his eyes in panic. He casts about, left and right, twisting his body to look around him, but he’s alone entirely. The lightbulb burns above his head. His clothes lie crumpled beside the door where he left them. Buster scratches at the floorboards in the hall. The stag is nowhere to be seen. Nobody looks out at him from the mirror. The curtain lies still across the window. He’s definitely, utterly, painfully alone.

He collapses back into the tub, heart racing, breath fiery in his lungs, and scrubs a hand across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. Off to his left, the knife with the ivory handle sits on a three-legged chair next to his cell phone and his head lolls in their general direction, unbidden as he tries to calm himself. He regards it with a passive type of interest, unsure why he even brought it into the room in the first place. It’s becoming something akin to a security blanket, following him about like a loyal dog, waiting for him to reach for it. The blade shines in the light, water droplets sparkling on the steel. Picking it up with one wet hand, he holds it up to the light and examines it closely. It looks innocent like this, held in his palm, the blade sharp and the handle smooth aside from the one deep crack. The ivory is sealed together with stainless steel, tarnished, and he runs a finger experimentally along the blade, watching as blood beads at his fingertip. It’s impossibly sharp, deceptively so. 

The single drop of blood tracks down his finger, down across his palm to his wrist, eventually dripping off and into the bathwater where it disperses in a pink ripple. Will watches it, entranced. He lifts his gaze slowly, vertically, to the mirror that stands above the sink on the opposite side of the room. A pale, gaunt face stares down at him, blood spattered, a smirk of irony at his lips. Garrett Jacob Hobbs, thinking he knows Will’s mind, thinking he’s shown him something intimate, something profound. Will’s heart pounds. He blinks and the face in the mirror changes: Alicia Miles, eyes open and sightless, one  hand raised, reaching for him. He stiffens, presses himself back against the tub, grips the knife viciously hard in his palm.

“I’m trying,” he hears himself whisper. It comes out as a hiss. “I’m trying. Leave me alone.”

Another blink. The daughter, Abigail Hobbs, her throat nothing but a gaping slash, arterial spray splashing across her face. Her eyes are wide with shock, gazing at him, wordlessly asking him why and he shivers in the hot water, covering his eyes with his hands.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I tried…” 

He braves looking again and she’s still there, still watching him, still pallid and horrified. In his peripheral vision, a cloud of steam puffs out thickly and wet, snorting breath caresses his skin as the stag closes in on him. The walls are pulling in, his head beginning to pound in time to his heartbeat, and all he can see is the pale gaze of Abigail Hobbs, accusing him, reminding him, reaching for him. 

Will lowers both hands into the water, into his lap, the knife held tightly. And he cuts.

*

It’s a little after four in the morning and Hannibal is in the middle of a fairly satisfying dream of Will Graham naked and vulnerable, spread out on his kitchen table and entirely at his mercy. Which is probably the reason why it takes him a little longer than usual to draw himself back to consciousness and realise that the shrill chime coming from his nightstand is his cell phone ringing at a piecing volume. Giving it a glare so intense it could freeze the third circle of Hell, Hannibal swipes it and punches the answer key, only taking a second to look at the display screen. 

When he speaks, he manages to keep the irritation in his voice to a minimum. Will’s blatantly rude dismissal of him at the forensics lab then again at the crime scene has stung him deeply and he’s in no mood to be at the younger man’s beck and call simply because he can’t sleep or has wandered off somewhere in his dreams. Will Graham might call for him in his hour of need but it doesn’t mean Hannibal has to answer unless he wants to. He decides he will wait and see exactly what this phone call is regarding before deciding whether or not to give Will a segment of his precious time. 

“What is it, Will?”

Silence greets him, punctuated by the shaky breath of a man trying to regain control over himself. After a beat, Hannibal sighs and tries once again, a little kinder this time. 

“Will? Is everything alright?”

“It was an accident…” 

The slight slur to Will’s words isn’t abnormal, nor is the distant tone to his voice. But something instinctive makes Hannibal sit up straight in bed, instantly alert. Curiosity overrides his irritation with the younger man and softens his tone as he swings his legs out of bed to sit on the edge.

“What was an accident? Tell me what’s happened.”

“I didn’t know who to call,” Will continues as if Hannibal hasn’t spoken. “I can’t go to the hospital, they’d… They’d get the wrong idea. And I don’t know anybody else who would come. You might not even come. But I had to try… I didn’t do it on purpose…”

“Will. Focus.” Hannibal slides out of bed, holding the cell phone between his shoulder and ear, changing swiftly from his sleep pants to his dress pants and rifling through the wardrobe for a shirt. This is no nightmare, that much is abundantly clear. This is something much more serious than that. “Tell me what’s happened.” He waits. No response. “Have you injured yourself, Will?”

“Yes,” Comes the shaky, hoarse reply and Hannibal closes his eyes for just a moment. Behind his eyelids, Will’s blood seems to glow red then fade to a deliciously dark, inky black. 

“Intentionally?”

“Hannibal…” 

It’s a pitiful, faraway sound, one that Hannibal wants to slap him for. He sharpens his tone, sensing that Will needs a firmer hand if he’s going to get anything out of him tonight. 

“What have you done, Will? Tell me now.” 

Slipping into his suit jacket, Hannibal forgoes the tie this time in an effort to get downstairs as quickly as possible. Overcoat and shoes on, he locks up the house amid his own unanswered persuasions for Will to share his reason for calling. He’s unlocking the Bentley and is about to get in when Will coughs, then finally acquiesces to the demands. 

“I didn’t mean to cut so deep. I’ve tried to stop the bleeding but I can’t… it’s too deep. Hannibal, what do I do? You’re a doctor,” His words are slurred together, likely a combination of shock, adrenaline, and blood loss. “Tell me what to do.”

He’s climbing the steps to his house again without realising what he’s doing, mind thick with lists of things he might need to treat Will when he gets to Wolf Trap. As he unlocks the door he notes with some interest that his hand is shaking. Just a little, a light tremor, but it’s enough to still him in curiosity before he goes back inside in search of his medical bag. 

“Where, Will? Where have you cut yourself?”

“My wrist.” The words come thick, pained. “It won’t stop, Hannibal.”

“Go to your kitchen. Take the thickest dish towel you can find and fold it up to make a pad. Place it over the cut and wrap another around it, tightly, Will. Put as much pressure on it as you can then sit at the kitchen table and elevate your arm so your hand is above your heart. Do you understand me?” 

Hannibal knows that Will knows exactly what to do. His training both in homicide and in the FBI would have been more than enough to instruct him on how to deal with an injury to an extremity when the bleeding won’t stop. But whether he’s forgotten or he doesn’t want to deal with it himself, Will seems to seek the direction that Hannibal gives. His voice is stronger when he speaks again.

“Yes. I’m… I’m in the kitchen.”

“When you’ve wrapped your arm, wait there for me.” He’s in and out of the house in under a minute, unlocking the Bentley and sliding into it’s cool familiarity. “I’ll be with you in an hour, Will. Can you hold on that long?”

“Yes.” Voice stronger still, Will almost sounds like his old self. Hannibal can picture him nodding, gaze dropped to the floor. 

“Good. You did the right thing, Will. I’m glad you telephoned me.” Hannibal soothes, and hears Will inhale and exhale down the line. “Don’t panic. I’ll be with you very soon. I’ll help you sort this out.” 

“Hurry,” he hears Will murmur, and he closes his eyes for a beat, imagining the young man slumped bloody in his kitchen, blue eyes glassy, reaching for Hannibal like a lifeline. “Please.”

The drive to Wolf Trap feels as though it takes a mere five minutes. Sooner than he imagined he’s stepping out of the Bentley with his leather bag in hand, overcoat flapping in the sharp wind that whips around Will’s isolated home. The lights are on in the kitchen, hallway, and upstairs in what Hannibal thinks is the bathroom. The door is unlocked and he heads straight for the kitchen where, as he expected, he finds Will slumped at the kitchen table. 

His eyes are red-rimmed, stark in his pale face and his lips have a greyish tint to them. He’s shirtless, his hair still damp and drying in fluffy curls, and he’s got one elbow resting on the table, hand in the air, clasping a bloody towel to it. By the looks of the two others tossed on the floor, it’s been bleeding for a while. It doesn’t look as severe as Hannibal had feared but Will looks drowsy from shock and blood loss, and he seems ready to burst into tears at the sight of Hannibal. There’s blood on the table, his chest, his threadbare pyjama pants, in a trail on the floor in shaky pathways to the sink and out into the hallway, and Hannibal surmises he didn’t cut himself in the kitchen. He must have done it elsewhere and wandered the house in a panic. His phone is discarded on the counter. 

“Will, tell me what happened.” Hannibal opens his bag, taking out packets of gauze, surgical tape, curved needles and catgut, taking in the scene around him in one sweeping look. Will looks at him through hazy eyes, his hand resting against his forehead. 

“I slipped. I didn’t mean it to be this bad…”

“You said that already.” Hannibal shucks his jacket and overcoat and rolls up his sleeves. He’s swift, clinical, efficient. “How did you cut yourself?”

He already knows the answer, to a point, but cruelly he wants to watch Will squirm. To pay penance for his rudeness at the BAU. And squirm Will does, beautifully. He redirects his gaze, his shoulders tense, his stomach clenches. He bites his bottom lip, a gesture Hannibal would quite like to do for himself. When it looks like he’s clammed up completely, Hannibal presses forward. 

“Were you harming yourself, Will? Is that how you injured your wrist?” When Will says nothing, Hannibal nods to himself as he snaps on a pair of Latex gloves. “You cut yourself to escape from emotional pain, to redirect the trauma from your own mind onto your flesh. But what happened after that, Will? Did you fail to notice how deep the blade had sunk? Or did you enjoy the abuse right up until the sheer amount of blood began to frighten you?” Hannibal unwraps his arm, staunching the blood quickly with a thick gauze pad. “Where did you do it? Your bedroom? In bed?”

“In the bath.” Will sounds faint as he confesses, like a murderer confessing his sins to a priest in the presence of God. “I saw… I saw things. Abi- People. Just people. Watching me. I couldn’t breathe.” 

Hannibal works quickly, stemming the bleeding and cleaning the wound. It’s deep, a diagonal cut but not long. Blood wells up and spills over and Hannibal staunches it with gauze, asking Will to hold it in place for him which seems to make the young man pale even further. Bloody gauze quickly piles up on the kitchen table. He threads the suture material through the eye of the needle, tying it off and offering Will painkillers which, as predicted, are declined. 

“It isn’t as deep as I feared. You managed to avoid the radial artery. Had you not, you likely would have bled to death before I could reach you.” Hannibal stitches Will’s skin together as quickly and precisely as he can, conscious of the younger man’s gritted teeth and flinches of pain. “You will be in pain for some days, I fear. I will source you some suitably strong painkillers but codeine will have to suffice for now.”

“I don’t want it,” Will breathes and Hannibal glances up at him, unsurprised. There’s a sheen of sweat on Will’s brow and collarbones and his eyes are glassy with pain and exhaustion. “I want to feel it. I want to remember it.”

“Will.” His task finished, Hannibal sets to bandaging the wound, encasing Will’s wrist in padding and finally settling on holding his hand once he’s done. Will watches him work, eyes finally coming to rest on their conjoined hands. He doesn’t pull away. “I am becoming increasingly concerned about you. Self-harm to this level is a sign of something much more profound. I must recommend professional intervention.”

“You  _ are _ professional intervention,” Will mutters, testing the flex of his fingers by tightening his grip and grunting in pain. “I called you, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Hannibal concedes. “Only to provide emergency medical attention though, is that not correct? You feared if you sent for an ambulance they would think you suicidal and commit you to a minimum seventy-two-hour hold. You’d have to prove to them you are completely well and that this was an accident. And you know as well as I that it would be very difficult to do so, with a wound of this sort and this location. Combined with the other marks on your body, the doctors would be incredibly concerned - and rightfully so. By calling me, you knew you would be subject to no such judgment and investigation. But I have served my purpose, I believe. Now that I have sewn you back together you would send me on my way and assume the matter forgotten?”

“No. I don’t want to do that.” Will is gaunt and sickly with exhaustion and looks like he couldn’t make it five steps let alone to his bedroom to lie down. “I appreciate you coming. Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“You have been avoiding me.” Hannibal washes his hands in the sink, disposes of the gauze and bloody cloths, and puts the copper kettle on the stove. Tea for himself, whiskey for Will for its medicinal values. And tea, chamomile, to help him rest. Hannibal can envisage himself carrying the younger man to bed, and he relishes the idea of having him in his arms once again so soon. “Did you intend to keep your appointment on Friday?”

“Yes.” Will lowers his face into his uninjured hand, cradling the other close to his chest with a hiss of discomfort as the stitches pull. “I did. I do. I didn’t mean for this.”

“I know.” 

Hannibal stands behind him, rests a hand on the nape of his neck, waiting to see if Will shrugs him off. When he doesn’t, he rubs gentle circles into the skin beneath the dark locks. Then he brings his other hand up to Will’s shoulders and massages in gentle motions. Will tilts his head forward with a sigh, giving Hannibal better access. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers to the table and Hannibal digs his thumbs in deeper. Will groans at how good it feels. 

“Think nothing of it. But Will?”

“Yes?” He's drowsy, swaying in his seat, and Hannibal draws him backward until the back of Will’s head rests against his stomach. Gently, slowly, he winds his arms around Will’s shoulders in a light embrace. 

“Let me help you. Do not suffer this alone. Let me in. Accept help when you need it.”

Silence stretches between them, long and loaded, until Will turns his head to the side, cheek pressing into Hannibal’s stomach. He nods, just once. 

“Yes. I think… I think I need some help.”


	6. Chapter 6

Hannibal does put Will to bed that night. 

After drinking both the tea and the whiskey and managing to swallow a few bites of toast, Will was no longer able to keep his eyes open. Hannibal had bent, lifted him from the chair with one arm under his knees and the other at his back, and Will had curled into him with a low, sad sigh, allowing himself to be held. Hannibal had felt moisture on his neck right where Will’s closed eyes rested but declined to comment. The young man was near rock bottom, fatigued and raw, and he was screaming out for help in his own way. And only Hannibal was allowed to get close enough to see it. 

He had stripped Will down, eased a pair of black boxer briefs up his thighs ensuring his eyes didn’t stray where they weren’t wanted, and Will had watched him through his dark lashes, one hand reaching out to Hannibal the entire time. The other remained cradled to his chest, clearly hurting him though he refused pain relief, and eventually Hannibal had gathered every dog-hair-free blanket in the house and draped them over the bed until Will was so comfortable and warm that he fell asleep mid-protest that Hannibal didn’t have to attend to him so. Mid-word. His eyes closed and his voice trailed off, his hand relaxing where it clasped Hannibal’s. And, in response, Hannibal had stood up, bent down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead and pull the covers up a little more, then left the room. 

He could leave. Will is patched up and asleep, and they have an appointment scheduled in a few days time. He’s safe, comfortable, and Hannibal has no reason to stay. He’s tired and could use a couple of hours sleep before preparing to see his first patient of the day. He should leave. 

But instead, he cleans Will’s house from top to bottom, beginning with the room where tonight’s incident originated. 

He pushes his sleeves up a little further, gathers the necessary equipment from Will’s kitchen cupboards, and heads for the bathroom following the trail of wet footprints, the little pools of water tinted with blood. The room itself looks like one of the crime scenes Will is dragged to so often. The bath is still full, cold, the water diluted pink with Will’s blood. It’s in puddles on the floor, trails of bloody footprints in a pattern that suggests Will was staggering, flustered, and blood smears the walls, sink, mirror, floor, everything possible. 

Hannibal frowns as he sets to work. Will had evidently been in a blind panic when he hauled himself from the bath, touching everything, stumbling around. There are handprints on the mirror, smeared, and he regards them with some interest. Why was Will touching the mirror when he was injured and in need of medical attention? He had said he’d seen people, had stopped just short of saying a name that Hannibal is certain he knows. Abigail Hobbs, the daughter who died in her father’s arms. Why was Will thinking of her? He’s hiding something, and Hannibal’s resolve is iron-clad: he will find out what. Because whatever it is, it likely is linked strongly to his self-injury. 

He’s unable to stop himself from reaching out and wiping the tip of a finger through the bloody handprint on the mirror, seeing his own eye staring back at him in the gap he leaves. It’s tacky, almost dry but not quite. He brings his finger to his lips: Will’s blood tastes just as it did the day of his fall, sweet and pure and he wants so much more of it. If it weren’t so inelegant, he would think of cleaning the mirror with his tongue. But the idea that Will might rise from his bed and find him doing such a thing appals him so much that his skin crawls and he shakes the idea free of his mind. His control will, as always, win out. So he sets to with glass cleaner instead of saliva, wiping the stains from the mirror and turning next to the sink, making his way methodically around the room until every surface shines. The bath he allows to drain then cleans it thoroughly. The threadbare bath mat will meet its long-overdue end in the bottom of the trash can. Hannibal could buy him a new one, perhaps. 

On, then, to the rest of the house. Hannibal finds himself unable to stop once he’s started and the dogs trail after him, watching with animated interest. He shoos them away with his hands and the tips of his toes, grimacing at the thought of their hair on his clothing. It becomes apparent as he works his way from room to room that Will hasn’t cleaned anything in a while, at least not beyond a cursory wipe down. It’s becoming apparent that the decline in his mental health has seeped into everything and Hannibal berates himself for not forcing his own involvement sooner. Nothing to be done now. 

He finishes up with the kitchen and sets some coffee on to brew, wishing Will had a French press instead of a cheap coffee machine. But at least it isn’t freeze dried. The kitchen is cleaner than it probably has been in years and Hannibal’s knees and back protest as he sits down to savour the first taste of caffeine and cream. Four hours have gone somewhere and the sun is high in the sky. The morning dew is long gone, swept away with the mist, and the fields surrounding Will’s home look bleak and cold. 

He lets the dogs out and they roam joyfully. He wishes he could leave them out there but Will would miss them terribly should anything happen to them. They’re fed, reluctantly, then curl up beside the fire that Hannibal built while they were out doing their business. Still Will sleeps, deeply; Hannibal checks on him every half hour. He hasn’t moved at all, aside from his head turning from one side to the other, and it’s a sign that his nightmares are not troubling him this time. Hannibal draws the curtains in the bedroom closed to block the morning sun, wanting Will to sleep for as long as his body needs. 

Somewhere after noon, Will’s cell phone rings and Hannibal snatched it up before it can wake him. The caller ID reads Jack and he’s tempted to hang up. But something tells him the man will just keep calling if he does that. 

“I need you, Will.” Jack snaps without preamble. No greeting, no social niceties, nothing at all to suggest that Will is anything more than a subservient tool to him. Hannibal can feel a cold anger ripening at his core at the very idea. “Another body. We weren’t fast enough.”

_ You _ weren’t fast enough, is what Hannibal hears. It’s what Will would have heard too and Hannibal is instantly grateful that he was the one to pick up this call. He doesn’t want to think of yet more damage being inflicted on Will’s psyche. Sticks and stones. He clears his throat and Jack pauses, evidently confused. 

“Jack, you’re speaking with Hannibal. Will is indisposed at the moment.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, offers nothing. He waits, and Jack sighs heavily as though Will lying passed out after a night of self-injury is a cross he himself is bearing. 

“Well, I need him, Hannibal. We need to catch this guy, and he’s our best chance. Where is he? Quantico? Why do you have his cell?”

“He’s at home, resting. He isn’t well, Jack, and what you require of him will only make him worse. You will have to catch this killer on your own.”

“Not an option. Hannibal, I know he’s there. Put him on the phone.” Jack’s tone attempts to leave no room for argument. Perhaps he forgets who he’s speaking with. 

“As his psychiatrist, I cannot support his continued involvement in this case. It will be at a detriment to his mental and physical health and that is not a risk I am willing to take.”

“You’re not his guardian, Hannibal, and I never would have involved you had I thought you’d be this obstructive. Whatever lines of professionalism you’re crossing with him, they’re getting in the way of him doing his job. Put him on the goddamn phone!” Jack is shouting now, nerves wound tight, and Hannibal can picture his cheeks flushed and spittle flying with the final two words. 

“No.” He says simply, and ends the call without further ado; the image of Jack’s incandescent fury at being disconnected makes the corner of his mouth tug in a smile. He watches the screen as the phone rings again, Jack’s name flashing up, and he just allows it to ring, on and on. The sound jars his senses and he grips the phone so tightly that the plastic casing creaks beneath his grip. He’s mere seconds away from launching it towards the fireplace when a noise from the doorward redirects his attention.

“Hannibal?”

Will stands framed by the midday sunlight, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, looking pale and fatigued but much more lucid than earlier that morning. He’s holding onto the door frame with one hand and looks like his legs may give out, and he’s staring at the phone which had paused in its incessant ringing, only to start up again. 

“Who is it?” Will makes an aborted movement, as though automatically reaching to take the phone to answer it and thinking better of it.

“It’s Jack. He’s rather demanding in his need for your services.”

“I bet.” Will leans more heavily against the doorframe and Hannibal pulls out a kitchen chair, gesturing for him to sit down. He does, pulling the blanket a little tighter around himself. “What did you tell him?”

“That you were unwell and that he should find someone else to assist him. Tea?” Hannibal turns away towards the stove and it takes Will a moment to answer.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here. Did you…” He casts about. “You cleaned up.”

“I did.” The kettle whistles and Hannibal removes it from the heat.

“You didn’t have to do that. I could have done it.” 

Will’s cheeks are flaming as Hannibal places a steaming cup of peppermint tea in front of Will who clasps it gratefully, wincing as the movement tugs at the stitches in his wrist. Hannibal lets him drink in peace for a moment, taking a seat opposite him and watching him intently. Will avoids his gaze, staring down into his cup or over into the fire, anywhere but at the man before him. Winston noses at his thigh and receives a cursory pat for his efforts. Will’s cell phone rings again, vibrating in the centre of the table and moving itself an inch to the left with the motion, and they both stare at it blankly.

“I can’t,” Will says, voice low and small. “Not today. I can’t.”

“I know you can’t. I have informed Jack already. You need to rest, Will.” 

Hannibal extends his hand across the table, palm up, taking care not to scratch the face of his watch on the wood. After staring at it for a long moment as though it might bite him, Will reaches out with his good hand and lowers it into Hannibal’s palm. He keeps the other wrapped around his mug and Hannibal can see traces of blood through the bandages at his wrist. 

“Why are you still here?” Will speaks to the table, allowing Hannibal to trace circles onto the back of his hand with a gentle thumb.

“Because you need someone to look after you, and I did not wish to leave you alone. The only other person I thought you might trust to help you is Alana, but it is not my place to divulge personal details to her.”

“No,” Will says quickly with a shake of his head. His curls sway with the movement. He needs to wash his hair properly, needs a shower and more rest. “No, I don’t want her here. She’ll judge me, Hannibal. She tries not to, I know she does. But she just sees me as they all do: as a puzzle to solve. None of them ever see beneath the surface. I don’t think they care enough to try...”

His voice trails off and his eyes appear glassy for a moment before clearing beneath rapid blinks. Hannibal tightens his hold on Will’s hand until pale blue eyes rise to meet his.

“I care, Will. The skills of your mind do not eclipse who you are. Not to me.”

They sit quietly in the kitchen, watching as Will’s phone continues to ring and dance across the table, holding hands until the shadows grow long and the dogs begin to whine for their dinner. Will attempts to rise but Hannibal calms him with hands on both his shoulders.

“Allow me.”

And Hannibal cooks for them all. Catfish and lemon for himself and Will, boiled chicken and rice for the dogs. He works swiftly, efficiently, sleeves rolled up and an expression of tranquillity on his face as he learns Will’s kitchen and chops, dices, and sautes with the skill and ease of a long-practiced chef. The flavours explode on Will’s tongue and he’s sure he makes a sound that could be considered erotic in any other circumstance. 

He showers carefully, dresses in a warm sweater and his softest dark jeans. Then, ignoring the sting of his own instincts and the weight of Hannibal’s critical gaze, he answers the phone to Jack.

*

With his wrist freshly bandaged and Hannibal flanking him as they pick their way through the woodland, Will makes his way towards the group of people milling around in the centre. He has both hands in his pockets and stumbles once on a fallen log - before he can crash to his knees however, Hannibal’s hand catches his elbow and draws him close, breaking his fall with his own body. Will gazed up into his eyes and takes a lot longer than he should to pull away - and when he does, he sees Beverly standing at the edge of the taped off crime scene with an unreadable expression on her face. 

“You’re late.”

“Wasn’t planning on coming,” Will says, brushing past her and wincing as his wrist smarts. Jack is making a beeline for hi and Beverly takes him by the elbow, steering him away towards where Price and Zeller are standing, mid-squabble, and Jack detours off towards Hannibal instead. Over his shoulder, Will can see Hannibal standing perfectly still, solemn and immovable, listening to Jack rage like an angry bull. He catches the words ‘unprofessional’ and ‘obstructive’, and is sure if Hannibal were anyone else he would be rolling his eyes. As it is, Hannibal merely watches Jack vent his frustration with cold passivity, eventually glancing over towards Will with a bored glaze to his eyes. Will smothers a smile and turns back to Beverly.

“What?” He frowns at the curious expression on her face. 

“Nothing. Just… you and Hannibal seem close.”

“We’re just friends,” he mutters shortly and Beverly smirks at him. “It’s nothing.”

“I never said you were anything more than friends.” She quips and drags him towards the scene as he splutters indignantly behind her. “You walked right into that one. Anyway: the body. Melody Charlton, twenty-one, less than a mile away from her home.” Beverly points vaguely to the West. “Same as the other girls: strangled, her own intestines wrapped around her throat. What do you think?”

Will thinks a lot of things, but doesn’t share any of them. He approaches the girl slowly, feeling queasy in a way he normally doesn’t experience at crime scenes, and takes in her dark curls spread out in a messy arc around her head. The half-closed eyes. The pallor of her skin, pale and waxy beneath a deep tan. Her hands are clasped together on her chest above a deep wound to her abdomen where, he knows without looking, most of her internal organs will have been pulled out. She’s in a white dress, the blood and dirt standing out even more starkly against the fabric. She looks oddly peaceful in spite of her gory demise and Will bends closer to look at her face. The same appearance, statistically speaking, as the other girls. Dark hair, five-foot-six or less, petite, generically pretty. Twenty-one. Her age has to mean something. 

His thoughts are interrupted by a presence at his side, then Hannibal touches a hand to his lower back. 

“Are you well? You’re sweating.”

“Normal for me.” He wipes at his brow distractedly. “Same as the other girls.”

“Yes.” Hannibal’s tone is carefully neutral but Will can sense underlying irritation. He turns and sees Jack glaring daggers at the pair of them, only looking away when Will pins him with a penetrative gaze. Being stared at by the man who avoids eye contact at all costs usually has the desired effect of making the victim feel all kinds of awkward. 

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” Hannibal still hasn’t moved his hand and Wil is hyper-aware of the through through the layers of his sweater and jackets. “We had a discussion with the desired outcome. Nothing more than that.”

“An outcome you desired, or one he desired?”

Hannibal awards him a small smile, then nods towards the body before them. Will is struck with a bizarre urge to shroud her from the eyes of everyone in the woods. To protect her. Care for her, in a way nobody else can…

“He loves them,” he says slowly and Hannibal turns to him. “He thinks he loves them. Not as partners, there’s nothing sexual about it or we’d find evidence of that. As a family member, a close friend, a…”

“A daughter?” Hannibal ventures and Will stares at him as something clicks in his mind. 

“Yeah. As a daughter.” 

*

It takes him a while, but he finally finds it. A small, artisanal coffee shop tucked away down a side street with an awning and two little tables flanking the door. Hannibal had dropped him in the centre of Baltimore and excused himself to see a client. Will had told him he would call when he finds what he’s hunting for. 

He has no intention of calling. 

He pushes the door to the cafe open and the girl behind the counter gives him a dismissive once-over, but he walks in the opposite direction to the counter. He heads for the notice board overhanging a small table piled high with second-hand books and magazines. Business cards and flyers are clustered together advertising a myriad of events and services, pinned and taped up, and he scans them all feverishly, his mind supplying exactly what he’s looking for but blurring the details. Perhaps the card has been taken down since he was last in here, weeks and weeks ago. Before Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Before the knife. 

He blinks, and there it is. Staring down at him and he detaches it from the corkboard with numb fingers. Everything is falling into place swiftly, the cogs in his mind turning over and over, piecing together the jigsaw with rapid speed. He reads the card once, twice, memorises the address then crumples it into his palm. Then he calls a cab. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry for the radio silence. I have some pretty exciting stuff going on in Real Life right now that has kept me distracted, but I'm back now. Enjoy...

Hannibal is twenty minutes into an hour-long session with a repeat patient of his, Franklyn Froideveaux, when his emergency phone line trills loudly and startles Franklyn out of his monologue about a friend of his that seems to be displaying peculiar behaviour. They both stare at the phone as it rings again and Hannibal uncrosses his ankles, standing and tugging his waistcoat back into place.

“My apologies, Franklyn. I must answer this call. It is likely to be of an urgent nature.”

Franklyn watches him cross the room, his beady eyes taking in Hannibal’s every move as always, wringing his hands together in agitation either at being cut off or at having Hannibal’s attention directed elsewhere if only for a minute. Mouthing another apology, Hannibal picks up the receiver and holds it to his ear.

“Doctor Lecter speaking?”

“You need to call Jack, Hannibal.” Will’s voice comes down the line, rushed and breathless. There’s the sound of traffic in the background, horns honking; he’s in a car, and it must be a cab since his own car is back in Wolf Trap. “I think I’ve found him. I know I have.”

“Will.” Hannibal manages to keep his tone neutral - Franklyn’s eyes are boring into him. “I’m with a patient. Can this wait?”

“No!” It’s barked out, loud and harsh. “Hannibal, don’t you understand? I’ve found him! I need to stop him before he hurts someone else!”

Confusion furrows Hannibal’s brow. When he had parted from Will, they were still in the dark about the killer with not enough leads to even hazard a guess at who it could be. Will sounds almost manic now, driven by his intrinsic need to save those around him, even strangers who would care nothing for him. He must have stumbled across something after Hannibal left him.

“Will, please.” He speaks soothingly, turning his back on a fractious Franklyn to face the window. “You need to remain calm. Call for backup, do not rush into a dangerous situation alone. Do not put yourself at risk.”

“I have to! Before he gets to someone else!” The line breaks up then, static bursting into Hannibal’s ear and distorting Will’s words. He manages to grab a pen and write down as much of the address he can hear before the call cuts off. 

He looks down at the sheet of paper in his hands and thinks of Will. Brave, ferocious, desperate Will, going off alone to take down a demon with his bare hands. He needs help, backup, support, the wrath of the FBI behind him. Hannibal folds up the piece of paper neatly and places it into his breast pocket, glancing up at the clock. Twenty minutes left of Franklyn’s appointment. Then, and only then, will he call Jack. This is a test, for Will. And Hannibal is certain he will prevail.

He sits back down and crosses his legs at the ankles, steepling his fingers and focuses his entire attention on his patient, who is examining him thoroughly, a sheen of sweat making his forehead shine.

“My apologies, Franklyn. Please, continue.”

*

In the summer, the trailer park is likely to be dusty and windswept, most steps adorned with little baskets of flowers in an attempt to spruce the place up. But now, winter time, and the dust has turned to mud that slicks and squelches unpleasantly beneath Hannibal’s shoes as he and Jack pick their way down row after row, searching. He glances down at the paper once more, the half-written address in his own neat script. He wonders if they’re now too late. If abandoning Will to his fate had been a serious error in judgment. He has no doubt that the young man could be vicious when cornered, could hold his own in a fight, but when the opponent is so unknown and likely to lash out when provoked? A cold chill settles over his skin and he presses on, eyes flicking left to right as he hunts. Lace curtains flicker in a few windows, doors are pulled sharply closed, people turn away. Nobody wants to acknowledge them or to be seen with them. Jack is at his side, gun drawn in one hand, badge in the other, dark eyes cold and intense, focused on their goal. Hannibal wonders if their goal is the same, however. His is to find Will. Jack’s is, most likely, to find the killer.

They round a corner into an open space where two broken down trailers sit at right angles at the very far corner of the park, flanked and hooded by trees. And there, in the middle of the clearing, lie two bodies, still and unmoving, and Hannibal’s heart misses a beat.

He moves first, sensing Jack freeze at his side. There’s so much blood, soaking in a wide arc into the murky ground and an arterial spray reaching wide. Will’s dark head of curls protrudes from beneath the neck and shoulders of a man twice his side, and he isn’t moving. Hannibal approaches with the wary intent of someone stalking his prey, before dropping to his knees on the filthy ground beside the two tangled bodies.

_ What the hell has happened here? _

To his utter relief, Will’s eyelids flutter and open, and his pale blue eyes stare dazedly up at Hannibal. Blood drenches his lips, chin and throat and Hannibal has no  idea who it belongs to - and at this moment, he doesn’t care. He is the one to drag the body off Will, to drop to his knees beside him and take hold of his jaw - behind him, Jack is radioing desperately for backup. There’s blood in Will’s mouth, in his eyes, drenching him, and Hannibal wipes at it feverishly, seeking signs of life. Anger flares within him as he sees Will’s throat: there’s a choke wire wrapped around his neck, cutting into delicate skin and leaving painful lacerations in its wake. It’s been loosened enough for Will to breathe - his own fingers are still pushed beneath it, pulling it away from his skin - but his chest heaves with breath and Hannibal presses their foreheads together in relief, uncaring that the blood of a dead man is being smeared between them.

“Will,” he murmurs, holding the back of the younger man’s head, keeping him close. “You foolish boy. What have you done?”

Will reaches for him, clings with trembling, bloody hands to Hannibal’s coat, tries to speak but descends into choking coughing, spitting thick mouthfuls of blood and Hannibal has to turn him hurriedly onto his side to stop him drowning in it. It’s only then that he notices a torn chunk of what looks like flesh at the side of Will’s head. Blood, mucus, bile, and flaps of skin clinging to it. Will has his eyes firmly closed now, still holding Hannibal’s clothing in a death grip, and he has to twist awkwardly to look for the body of the man he assumes is the killer Will has sought, flushed out, and taken down. When he sees it, his heart stutters in a little leap of mingled revulsion and joy.

The man’s throat has been opened, torn out, his trachea on display and his milky eyes wide with shock as he no doubt rasped his last breath beneath Will’s mouth. 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What the hell happened here?” Jack wheezes to Hannibal’s side, stopping short when he’s held at bay with one steady palm. “Is that… did he…”

“He ripped out his throat,” Hannibal says calmly, with his characteristic clinical assessment of the situation before them even though his heart is beating a frantic staccato beneath his ribs. The realisation is enough to both enthrall and nauseate him. “With his teeth. No doubt the final act of a desperate man wanting to live.” He gestures to the garotte still around Will’s neck and loosens it further, unwinding it and wincing as thin strips of skin come away with it and Will cringes in pain. “An act of self-defence, clearly.”

_ What happened here? Dear, dear Will. What have you done? _

The red and blue lights of an ambulance cast the scene into an eerie glow and Hannibal is forced to step away from Will as paramedics appear and swarm the younger man who seems incapable of sitting up without help. He’s half-carried to the ambulance and manages to sit, shaking all over, while they unwind the wire from his neck and tend to him. His blue eyes flash between hollow and vacant to rapidly moving, looking beyond reality into something darker, occasionally seeking Hannibal’s gaze and holding it. Hannibal is wiped clean of Will’s blood, as much as possible, by a young woman with a bouncing ponytail and he stands at the open back doors of the rig, watching as Will is hooked up to an IV and given a shot of something, antibiotics likely, or something to take the edge of his shock.

Silently, eyes filled with an emotion that Hannibal, for once, cannot discern, Will lifts a hand from his thigh and extends it towards Hannibal, palm up and fingers lightly curled. Seeking comfort. Needing familiarity. No doubt frightened beyond belief and struggling to ground himself in the present. Hannibal steps forward, around the paramedic checking Will’s blood pressure, and takes his hand. Will barely grips him but his eyes fix onto Hannibal’s and pin him there; they gaze at each other while Will breathes hoarsely, fussed over and every vital sign checked and catalogued. Bloodied lips part and Will takes a breath then descends into a coughing fit again, and Hannibal pats him on the back as he struggles to catch his breath.

“Don’t try to speak,” Hannibal instructs him softly as the paramedic moves her attention up to examine the laceration to his throat. “Just focus on your breathing, Will. Stay with us. Stay here, with me.”

Blue eyes focus for a moment on Hannibal as though to ask ‘where else would I go?’ Shock is threatening to drag the young man under and Hannibal sits beside him on the gurney, sliding his overcoat off and draping it gently around Will’s shoulders. He leaves his arm there with it, holding Will against his side, and the young man goes easily. Jack is a few feet away, barking at Beverly who is gazing over at Will in concern and consternation. She beckons to Hannibal but he shakes his head; Will is the one who needs him now. Everyone else, everything else in the world, can wait.

“If he won’t be admitted,” the paramedic is saying and Hannibal tunes back in to her. “Then he needs to remain with someone for at least the next forty-eight hours.” She talks about shock, about concussion, about infection getting into the wounds on Will’s throat and the scrapes to his knuckles and cheekbone, and seems relieved and mollified to find out that Hannibal is a doctor and has a wealth of medical experience at his fingertips.

“I’ll take care of him. I can assure you of that.”

He manages to guide will to the Bentley and settle him in, draping his overcoat over him and tucking the edges in beneath Will’s thighs. Shivers are wracking his slim frame and Hannibal is about to close the door to keep the heat in when Jack descends out of nowhere, gripping the door and bodily pushing Hannibal aside.

“How did you know?” He demands, spittle flying, and Will cringes away. Hannibal’s blood heats with anger at his audacity. “How did you know it was him? What if you’re wrong? What if…”

“Jack,” he says, his tone an attempt at soothing in spite of his inner fury. “Not now. He needs to rest. We’ll find out what happened later.”

“That’s not good enough, Hannibal! I need answers! I have a fucking corpse on my hands!”

“Which you shall deal with.” Firmly, Hannibal tugs the door from Jack’s grip and closes it with a pleasantly heavy  _ thunk _ . Inside the car, Will sags with relief. He’s still filthy, skin caked with grime and dried blood, and Hannibal aches to wash him clean. “And I shall deal with Will. You will get your story, but not tonight. He was attacked, and he acted in self-defence and survived. He is to be praised, not hounded. Goodnight, Jack.”

Inside the car, he watches as Jack storms away to speak with another officer and gesture wildly at Zeller who glares back at him. Beverly is still watching Will with a sad, haunted look about her. Hannibal offers her a small smile then his attention focuses solely on the journey ahead of them.

“You did it, Will.” He murmurs, taking the young man’s hand as the Bentley purrs out of the trailer park. Will has either fallen victim to his exhaustion or passed out, so Hannibal doubts he hears the words. No matter. He can repeat them later. “I’m so proud of you.”

*

Hannibal has to guide Will from the car and into the house by his elbow. The younger man looks almost catatonic with shock and exhaustion and he reeks of sweat and blood. The pungent scent of another man all over Will almost makes Hannibal gag in disgust. He takes him upstairs, catching him around the waist as he trips a little on the stairs, and deposits him in the bathroom with a fresh set of towels and soft cashmere-blend sleep pants and a t-shirt to borrow. He’s desperate to know what happened at the trailer park, to be able to visualise Will’s actions in perfect detail, but he senses he won’t get much out of the young man tonight. 

“Do you think you can shower unassisted?” Hannibal asks and Will nods slowly, eyes glassy, yet doesn’t move a muscle. Hannibal sighs and reaches in to turn on the monsoon shower and, as steam slowly fills the room, he strips Will of his filthy clothes and folds them neatly into a pile to be washed. Or burned, depending on his mood when he returns downstairs. When Will is nude and shivering, Hannibal directs him towards the warmth of the shower. “Go on. I shall wait for you downstairs. Take as long as you need.”

Downstairs, he strips off his suit jacket and waistcoat, rolls up his shirtsleeves, and sorts through Will’s clothing. The pants are rescuable with a good stain remover and detergent but the jacket, sweater and shirt are all ruined beyond hope, stained with Royston’s blood and Hannibal can barely bring himself to touch them as he carries them to the garbage and disposes of them. Will can wear his clothing to return home tomorrow, though it may run a little large on his smaller frame. The idea of Will in his pants and shirt makes him smile. A more classic, tailored look will certainly suit the younger man. He pours himself a glass of whiskey, sets out an empty glass for Will when he comes down - medicinal, to settle his nerves - and waits in the drawing room with some of his clinical notes from the day’s appointments in front of him to write up. But concentrating is difficult and he frequently finds himself glancing at the ceiling, waiting for Will to emerge, clean and fresh and hopefully returned to something akin to his normal self. Perhaps then he may get some form of clarification on the violence of tonight.

Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. Thirty-five. Fifty. At fifty-nine, Hannibal sets down his glass and his paper and goes to investigate. He had left the bathroom door ajar and Will apparently hasn’t moved to close it. He pushes it open and peers through the steam, seeking the figure of the younger man and sights him standing in the shower stall, almost obscured by frosted glass, still and unmoving. Blood turned from red to brown still obscures most of his neck and face as Hannibal approaches; Will has stepped partially beneath the shower spray and evidently not moved since. Water cascades in a torrent down one shoulder, down his chest, down the planes of his stomach which look almost concave at the angle he stands at, dripping from his flaccid cock to pool at his feet. Red lines bisect the skin of his thigh, decorate his lower abdomen, sit all too proudly beneath his collarbone, and a sharp spear of anger lances through Hannibal at the sight of them. He had been foolish to think the cuts to Will’s hand and the subsequent panic over the one to his wrist were the only ones marking his body. The laceration to his neck may not have been self-inflicted but the other cuts clearly are, hidden as they would be beneath clothing, never to be seen by another. But Hannibal has seen them, and now Will doesn’t even try to hide them away. Will is shivering, a visceral reaction considering the heat of the room, and he’s staring blankly ahead of him, lost in his own mind. Trapped by it, perhaps. 

Hannibal doesn’t think about the logic of what he does next. He walks straight into the shower, fully clothed, and takes Will gently by the hand until the young man blinks and slowly meets his gaze through dark lashes dripping wet with steam. His bottom lip is split, the cut worried by his own teeth and opened up again, a bead of blood making its way slowly down his chin. The right side of his face is stained brownish-red, his hair matted and filthy, and Hannibal reaches up slowly to run a hand through it, his fingers coming away sticky. Gently, moving slowly so as not to scare Will, he turns him and coaxes him to step backwards until he’s fully under the spray. Hannibal tilts his head back gently until Will’s eyes fall closed and water cascades down his face, through his hair, washing him clean. Hannibal massages shampoo into his wet curls, cleansing the blood away, watching as the soap turns red, then pink, then back to white and eventually runs clear. Conditioner next, because Will deserves to be cared for. Then shower gel, which Hannibal pours into his palm and spreads across Will’s neck and chest as the younger man just stands there, utterly still, eyes closed and head now ducked, water dripping from his lips, nose and lashes as Hannibal cleans him. 

He touches with clinical swiftness, not lingering anywhere too long in spite of all his instincts that urge him to lean down and taste the curve of Will’s collarbone with his lips, lap the water droplets from his mouth, caress his skin and hold him until he stops trembling. He aches to possess the younger man, wants him all for himself. He wants Will to crave him, to turn to him in fear and cling, to need Hannibal the way Hannibal is growing to need him. His hands move lower, across Will’s stomach, gentle and concise, lathering up soap and washing it away. Then, slowly, he kneels, his clothing clinging uncomfortably to him now, wet through, and washes the residual shower gel from Will’s calves and thighs. This close, he can see the cuts clearly, feel them beneath his fingers and he has to restrain himself from tracing them with his fingertips, with his tongue. Shaky hands come to his shoulders and he glances up to see Will steadying himself, chest heaving with desperate breaths, and were Hannibal not eye-level with his groin and able to see the lack of evidence for himself, he would think Will painfully aroused.

He finishes up, stands, and with one arm around Will’s shoulder he reaches over to turn off the water, relishing the way the younger man leans into him, seeking comfort, overwhelmed with exhaustion.

“Come,” Hannibal murmurs to him. “Let me help you.”

He wraps Will in a fluffy towel and guides him to the sink where mouthwash and a fresh toothbrush sit waiting. Will’s hand shakes violently as he attempts to clean his teeth, scrubbing so hard Hannibal is afraid he’ll tear into his gums. After a moment of watching, Hannibal turns him gently with hands on his hips and coaxes him to sit down on the chaise decorating the bathroom. Wordlessly, he takes the toothbrush from Will’s hand and coaxes his mouth open with a gentle hand to his jaw. Will allows it, eyes fixed and distant, and Hannibal cleans his teeth for him as though he were a child. 

“Spit,” he tells him and Will obliges, spitting out a mouthful of toothpaste mixed with pink blood into the sink. Hannibal repeats the act three times then offers a cup of mouthwash. Will uses it, spits it out, holds the cup out in a silent request for more. He can likely still taste the man’s blood on his tongue in spite of his clean mouth, can feel the skin breaking beneath his teeth. No amount of mouthwash or toothpaste will rid him of those sensations tonight. 

It doesn’t take long to get Will into the pyjamas provided for him, nor to settle him in Hannibal’s guest room. Hannibal takes a moment to strip off his own wet clothes, deposit them in the laundry basket, and don his own soft sleep pants and a dark navy Henley before returning to Will’s side. Antiseptic is applied once again to the cuts on his throat as Will lies with his eyes half-closed, face turned towards Hannibal, seeking him out. A pause, two heartbeats long, then Hannibal lifts the hem of Will’s t-shirt to expose four angry red lines left by a blade, marring the soft, pale skin of his stomach. Will doesn’t flinch. Hannibal applies the same antiseptic to those cuts, gritting his teeth with fury at their mere presence, then tests his luck and draws a finger into the waistband of Will’s pyjama bottoms. Narrow hips shift, lift up, and Will is bared to Hannibal again under the lamplight, soft and pliant, allowing his body to be manipulated to the older man’s desires. Hannibal cleans the cuts on his thigh this time - these are deeper, more ragged, done in a fit of emotion. One of them should really have been stitched closed and bears the residual swelling of a healing infection. Hannibal takes his time cleaning these, using the opportunity to run his gaze over Will’s genitals with interest. He’s soft, flaccid cock sitting plump against his left thigh amid a shock of dark curls, balls heavy beneath it. In spite of his shower, Hannibal can smell the intimate scent of him, stronger between his legs, and his mouth waters with the desire to lean in and taste. To draw Will into his mouth and coax him to arousal and climax. He wonders what Will’s release would taste like as it burst over his tongue. He would allow it, would welcome Will to reach orgasm in his mouth, something he has never permitted with previous lovers. It’s too intimate an act. But for Will, nothing is too much. Having seen his fill, Hannibal eases him back into his clothing, covers him with blankets and sits by him as he stares off into the distance, breathing softly. 

“Thank you.” The words leave Will’s lips so quietly that Hannibal almost misses them. He reaches out and brushes Will’s hair back off his forehead, watching him breathe.

“I’ll be right back,” Hannibal tells him, forcing himself not to react to the pained noise nor to the way Will reaches for him as he stands. Soon, less than five minutes later, he’s sitting down on the edge of the bed again and depositing a steaming glass on the bedside table. “For your throat. Whiskey, cinnamon, honey, and lemon. It will help settle your nerves also. Do you need me to help you sit up?”

Will shakes his head but struggles, and Hannibal slides an arm behind his shoulders to assist, the movement bringing them close together. Will sips the drink slowly, clearly in pain, coughing and leaning heavily into Hannibal, almost spilling the liquid all over them both until Hannibal takes his wrist to steady him. Beneath his fingers, the cut he had so delicately stitched together stands out prominently and he has to stop himself from tightening his grip. 

“I’m sorry,” Will whispers hoarsely, head against Hannibal’s shoulder, tucked into his chest. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise, dear Will. You have no need to. You took down a killer tonight, almost at the cost of your own life. You should be proud.”

“Proud?” Will rasps, then descends into a coughing fit. “I ripped his throat out with - with my teeth. I’m a monster.”

Something akin to delight swells within Hannibal at the thought of how primal Will’s desire for survival must have been for him to turn to something so savage in his last moments of consciousness. He pictures Will’s sharp teeth puncturing skin, tearing flesh, crunching through the cartilage of the trachea. It wasn’t a nip or a tenuous attempt at a bite. It was cruel, vicious, intended to rip the life away from the other man, tearing him apart with strong jaws. It was beautiful.

“You did what your instincts instructed you to do to survive.” Hannibal takes the glass and sets it down, eases Will back onto the pillows but doesn’t remove his arm from around his shoulders. Will settles easily into the crook of his arm, curled against him. “And survive you did. And I’m so very glad that you did.”

Will makes a low sound that could be comfort or distress, presses a little closer, and Hannibal assumes stroking his forearm where it lies draped across his chest. He’ll find out what happened, he’ll ensure it. He’ll learn how Will put the pieces of the puzzle together to come up with the answer in such a short space of time. He’ll know the fight to the death so intimately that he will be able to draw it from memory. And he will know Will, in every way it is possible to know another.

But not tonight. 

“Try to sleep. Your throat will hurt less in the morning,” Hannibal muses. “I’ll watch over you.” 

_ I’ll keep the nightmares at bay. Or I’ll become at one with them. Either way, my darling, you’ll sleep undisturbed. I’ll make sure of it.  _


	8. Chapter 8

Will can’t breathe. His face is pressed down into mud and dirt, the freezing ground chilling him right down to the bone. There’s a weight on top of him, pinning every limb in place and crushing the breath from his lungs, exacting such pressure on his chest that he feels as though every rib is mere seconds from fracturing. He tries to scream for help but chokes on filthy rainwater as soon as his lips part and he retches. 

There are hands around his throat, choking him, sending blood pulsing to his head and his vision blurs into darkness. The pressure on his neck sharpens, becomes pain, and he feels his skin break and blood burst free to mingle with the filthy puddle he lies in. Someone is screaming at him, obscenities, threats, promises, and he’s powerless to fight back. He’s frozen in place, every muscle tense with fright, and no air is getting into his lungs. He’s going to pass out. 

He’s going to die. 

His body jerks and he draws in a ragged gasp, vision melting from a suffocating darkness to pale cream, then to white, and he manages to draw a breath deep into his aching lungs. He comes to with a low, distressed whine and turns his head, seeking Hannibal. He’s lying on his stomach in a warm, soft bed with too many pillows and it feels as though he’s been sleeping on a cloud - and it’s the pillow that had been obstructing his breathing. Not mud, not rainwater, not someone’s hands. He’s safe. His heart races and for a moment he thinks he’s going to vomit. Pure exhaustion has kept his sleep deep yet he wakes with a sick feeling clinging to him and bile rising in his throat as he remembers what the flesh of the man he killed had tasted like in his mouth. Every muscle in his body tenses as his stomach roils. A hand comes to rest on his lower back, beneath his t-shirt, rubbing in gentle circles to try and calm him and he sighs into his pillow, coughing, feverish and sweating. 

The older man is lying on his side, facing Will, his eyes amber in the lamplight and Will shifts a little closer, cold and seeking warmth. He’s trembling and not just from the cold. Either Hannibal has been awake for a while, watching him sleep, or he’s awoken at Will’s low cry and immediately reached for him. It doesn’t matter which; Will presses closer regardless. They don’t speak. Hannibal keeps up his slow massage of Will’s lower back, seeming to sense that it’s relaxing him, and Will pillows his head on his crossed hands, content just to watch him for a while. The table lamp is on beneath the window and outside rain is coming down in violent lashes, battering the pane. Will traces the planes of Hannibal’s face with his eyes, taking in the fine creases of his forehead, the crows feet, the glint of steely grey in his fine, straight hair. He swallows, and it hurts. It must show on his face because Hannibal retracts his hand from the back of Will’s t-shirt and his knuckles brush ever so gently across the red slash on his throat. 

They still don’t say a word. Hannibal’s hand comes up to his face, fingertips caressing gently, tracing his jaw, his cheekbone, his temple, down to his mouth, brushing across the cut bisecting his bottom lip. There’s a low-burning intimacy here, one that wasn’t present when they fell asleep - or maybe it was and Will was just too out of it to notice. He remembers bits and pieces of last night after the death of another man atop him, and mostly he remembers Hannibal’s hands. The way Hannibal had washed him clean almost reverently, tipping his head back and washing his hair for him, wiping the blood and gore from his face. Helping him brush his teeth. Guiding him to bed and holding him as he trembled, shocked, at his side. How good his hands had felt as he helped him lie down. How good it felt just to be close to someone. 

“My little lion,” Hannibal murmurs and Will closes his eyes under the praise. “Defending yourself with teeth and claws. My brave little cub.”

“Would you have done the same?” Each word feels forced, like jagged glass shredding his vocal chords as he struggles to get them out. “Would you have done it too?”

“Yes.” Hannibal inclines his head. “Though not as beautifully as you, I’m sure.”

“A man’s dead, Hannibal. Where’s the beauty in that? I’m a monster.” He closes his eyes against the memory, against the taste of death that still lingers in his mouth. 

“There is always beauty in death. This time, the beauty is in your life, in that it still exists in spite of the violence that sought to take it from you. You live, Will. You survived him. You caught him and rid the world of him. That is no small act.” 

Will buries his face in the pillows, hiding from Hannibal, from his words, from the world. He inhales the rich scent of jasmine and chamomile from the fabric, nuzzling it gently for comfort. He remembers Hannibal coaxing him to bed, lying him down, making him comfortable. Lifting his shirt up and…

“Shit.” The word makes him choke, his sore throat momentarily forgotten. “You saw… I mean, my stomach, you saw…”

“I saw the evidence of your distress, Will, yes.” Hannibal’s voice is so low Will can barely hear him. “I wish you had come to me instead of turning on yourself.”

“It’s not like that. It… It helps.” Will swallows, can’t look him in the eye. “I know I’m weak to give in and do it, but…”

Hannibal silences him by lightly covering his mouth with two fingers. Will blinks up at him, a little stunned. 

“I won’t have you say that of yourself, not after tonight.” His hand moves from Will’s mouth to run through his hair, playing with his curls as a thumb brushes across his temple, his brow, down to caress his cheek. “You are brave, strong, and smarter than the entire BAU combined. I don’t know what you did or how you did it, nor will I pry. But you are special, Will. And I won’t have you saying anything to disparage that.”

Will is lost for words after Hannibal’s short monologue. The intensity in the older man’s eyes has stripped him of his defences and he feels as if Hannibal can see directly into his soul. He swallows and Hannibal’s eyes track the movement of his throat. For one breathless, dizzying moment he thinks Hannibal is going to lean in and press a kiss to his lips. He even makes a short, aborted movement but then seems to think better of it and a cloying feeling that seems awfully similar to disappointment tugs at his stomach as Hannibal pulls away and sits up.

“Sleep, Will. Your body and mind need rest. Do you want the light on or off?”

Will shrugs, moving a little closer and turning on his side to face Hannibal. “Off. I guess.”

Hannibal is gone for less than a heartbeat and when he returns to bed the room is bathed in cool darkness. Somehow, the rain on the window sounds louder without the lamp on. Hannibal’s breathing sounds deeper, and he feels much closer. Much more solid. Will inches a little nearer. 

“Relax,  _ mon petit lionceau _ .” Hannibal shifts his arm, welcoming Will against his side and holding him close. “Sleep now. There’s nobody here but us.”

Against Hannibal’s body, only thin layers of luxurious fabric separating them, Will feels safe. Cared for. Protected, as though Hannibal would rear up and destroy anything or anyone who approached them in this moment. It’s igniting something within him that he hasn’t felt for years, something he thought he might never feel again, something he’s read about in books and longed for but thought long lost in his distant past: desire. 

Will tilts his head. Inclines it so his mouth is up towards Hannibal and all the older man would have to do to kiss him is turn toward him. It’s a bold move, and he waits with bated breath to see if he’ll be met or rejected. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, just that in this moment it’s all he wants. That intimacy with Hannibal, the touch of another person. He wants to feel needed. Wanted. Desired. More than just the broken shell everyone around him sees him as. He wants to be more than that, just for a moment. 

For a chilling few seconds, Hannibal doesn’t move. Will feels a deep stab of fear, rejection suddenly becoming a very real possibility. Then, slowly and with his customary grace, Hannibal pushes himself up onto the elbow beneath Will’s head, gently easing Will onto his back yet still cradling him until he’s above him, looking down at him in the darkness. They’re so close, sharing breath. Hannibal smells of jasmine and his own intimate scent, rich and heavy. Will inhales, swallows hard, lets his eyes fall closed. 

The kiss is sensual, a slow press of Hannibal’s mouth to his own, not demanding or dominating, just there. Present. Purposeful. Firm enough for Will to recognise it for what it is yet light and sweet, their mouths hot against each other and tongues gentle as they meet. Hannibal licks into Will’s mouth, the arm beneath him holding him close, and the other hand coming to tangle loosely in his hair. Hannibal kisses Will as though he’s holding something fragile, revered, precious to him. But there’s a latent desire there, the promise that if this were not their first kiss that it would be heated, devastating in all the best ways, that Hannibal could take Will apart and draw passionate cries from his lips and ignite pleasure in his veins in the sweetest ways. It’s intriguing and terrifying and Will kisses back with a hesitation borne of recent inexperience, the total absence of human contact making him nervous in his movements. He badly wants to get this right, to be what Hannibal wants him to be. And the kiss continues, Hannibal continues to hold him, stroking his hair and kissing his mouth, and Will melts into it all. 

When they part, Hannibal barely moves away, as though he’s magnetised to Will and cannot break free. He strokes Will’s hair back off his face, leans down to kiss him again before pulling back to lie at his side, pulling him into an embrace. Will can hear Hannibal’s heartbeat beneath his ribs, his own pounding in his ears. He can taste Hannibal on his lips, wants more. Craves it. Licks at their residual mixed saliva and breathes in deep, every muscle relaxed and sated. It was everything he had hoped for and, terrifyingly, so much more and he knows that one kiss is far from enough to satisfy him. He needs more. And he doesn’t want to wait too long to have it.

But not tonight. His exhaustion wins out. His eyelids droop and he curls against Hannibal’s side, tangling their legs together. A hand strokes through his hair, soothing him.

“My beautiful, ferocious little cub. Sleep now. Rest. I’m here.”

Sleep takes him, and he dreams of firelit nights and warm whiskey and Hannibal’s hands tracing patterns over his naked skin.

*

Morning comes, dark and grey and cold, and the rain hasn’t let up all night. The streets are slick with puddles and outside people hurry by, bundled up in scarves and coats, battling the wind with their umbrellas. The snow has melted to slush, piled brown and filthy up behind car tyres and against shop doorways. It’s a horrible day, the type of day that makes even the most chirpy of morning people want to stay in bed. 

And upstairs, in the warmth of a Baltimore home on Chandler Square, Will Graham wakes to the delicious scents of coffee and bacon, feeling more rested than he can remember in decades. He lies alone amongst Hannibal’s sheets and stares up at the ceiling, wondering on a cosmic scale just how messed up he is. He killed a man less than twenty-four-hours ago and here he is feeling calm, relaxed, and almost what other people would call happy. And it’s all, entirely, down to Hannibal. He’s under no illusions that had he gone home alone to Wolf Trap he would have torn at his skin until it bled and likely cried himself to sleep alone in the shower stall or on the couch by the cold fire.

He knows he has a lot of explaining to do. He can barely piece everything together in his own mind so it’s going to take time for him to regurgitate it to Jack, who will surely want every detail of every second that went by. And Hannibal, polite, kind Hannibal who hasn’t pressured or pushed him into talking. Will is eternally grateful for that; he’s sure he would have imploded under the strain had Hannibal attempted to tease the story from him last night. 

The fire in Hannibal’s bedroom burns merrily; Hannibal has obviously lit it recently, when Will was sleeping, so he would wake up to warmth and light. He curls under the dark silken sheets, staring into the flames. Hannibal kissed him last night. In spite of what he’d done, of what he’s now become. And not a chaste peck on the lips to placate him and coax him into sleep. The kiss had been deep, meaningful, loaded with emotion, and Will’s lips tingle at the delicious memory. He wonders what time it is and how long Hannibal has been awake. 

Then, soft and distant, he hears voices and pushes himself up onto an elbow in surprise, ignoring the multiple aches in his body as it protests the sudden movement. It can’t be later than ten in the morning, who would be calling on Hannibal this early on a Saturday? He slips out of bed, tugging his t-shirt down self-consciously, paranoid about his injuries becoming visible, and pads out onto the landing to listen. He can hear Hannibal’s low, warmly accented tones coming from the kitchen then a higher-pitched female voice responds and Will has to strain to listen.

“... concerned about him, Hannibal… hasn’t been himself for a while… not good for him… doctor… should be in hospital…”

Alana. Sweet, unassuming Alana who has always been a good - if somewhat distant - friend to him. He hears Hannibal, tone too low to discern the individual words, but it sounds reassuring. Perhaps he’s reminding her that he’s an experienced doctor and that Will is safe in his care. He steps onto the stairs then freezes as a third voice joins in.

“... doesn’t matter at this stage. I know it was self-defence… need to speak to him…”

Steeling his nerves, he descends the stairs and, conscious of his attire in Hannibal’s clothing and the assumptions that will be made about the pair of them, he steps into the kitchen.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s rude to talk about someone when they’re not around to hear you?”

His words have a bite to them that he wasn’t sure he intended, but he goes with it anyway. Across the kitchen, Hannibal’s lips lift in a small, secretive smile just for him. He almost smiles back, but Jack Crawford’s demanding presence in Hannibal’s opulent kitchen steals his attention. Alana stands at his shoulder, smartly dressed as ever in her dress and heels, coat draped over her arm, but Jack hasn’t bothered to take off his overcoat. He turns to Will, studying him with his dark eyes, taking in the rumpled state of his hair, the red slashes across his throat, the clothing that very evidently doesn’t belong to him, right down to his bare feet on the cold floor. Will feels as though he’s just been subjected to an x-ray and wraps his arms around himself for comfort. The movement lifts the hem of his t-shirt and he sees Hannibal’s eyes flick down to the strip of exposed flesh, sees him incline his head in warning and he drops his arm quickly. But not quickly enough - one glance at Alana tells him all he needs to know. She’s seen the cuts. Her eyes widen and she looks as though she’s about to say something but Hannibal intervenes before she can form the words.

“Will. I hope you slept adequately. I made you some white tea with honey,” Hannibal fiddles with a tea-strainer and china cup, sliding it towards him across the countertop. “For your throat. Please.”

Feeling wrong-footed, Will takes it and stares down into the steaming liquid, wishing he could clamber into the cup and drown himself, avoid all this tension that Jack and Alana have brought in with them. Had they not arrived, he was sure he would have been treated to a lazy morning with Hannibal, made coffee and fed expertly cooked breakfast, perhaps picking up where they left off last night. No chance of that now.

“When you’re feeling up to it, I need you at the BAU.” Jack’s voice is clipped, loaded with judgement. He’s still staring at Will as though he’s something under a microscope, a Rubix cube to be solved. Nobody misses the tension in his broad shoulders. He doesn’t care about Will being up to it. He wants him there  _ now _ . “I need a statement about what happened last night. It’s just a formality at this stage, it’s pretty clear it was self-defence and the first witness at the scene can corroborate that. Doctor Lecter,” he inclines his head at Hannibal. “I’ll need a statement from you, too. But as I said, just a formality.”

“A tick in the appropriate box.” Hannibal nods seriously. “Will and I shall dress and come down after breakfast, if he’s feeling quite well.”

“Don’t be too long.” Jack is eyeing Will with a microscopic intensity. “A lot of people have questions. Me included.”

“We shall be as quick as we can be. Will may wish to sleep longer, and as his psychiatrist and as a doctor then I must allow it.” Hannibal’s voice is chilled as the Atlantic and Jack twitches, fixes Hannibal with a baleful glare. “He slept poorly last night and needs to rest. Thank you for calling Jack, Alana. We will see you shortly.”

Then he turns away, leaving Alana and Jack to stare at his back and Will watches a range of emotions play across both their faces before they turn and head for the door. Alana bids him goodbye and Will lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave. Jack casts a judgemental eye over both of them before removing himself and the door bangs shut behind the pair of them leaving silence in the kitchen. 

“They thought we were together,” Will says, crossing the kitchen slowly to stand behind Hannibal as he selects four eggs and puts a pan onto the stove to heat. “You let them think we were.”

“I didn’t dissuade them of the notion, no.” Hannibal turns to him and Will doesn’t move back, leaving them in very close proximity. Will’s eyes fix on the crisp white dish towel slung over Hannibal’s shoulder. 

“Why?” His throat hurts and he swallows, trying to find his words. Trying to sound more confident than he feels. He meets Hannibal’s eyes and feels his breath whipped from his lips at the emotions swirling, barely contained, within them. “We’re not together.” He wets his lips, watches Hannibal follow the movement of his tongue with his gaze. “Are we?”

Hannibal moves forward so that the gap between them diminishes to almost nothing, and curls an arm up around Will’s waist either to hold him or to prevent him from backing away. Probably a mixture of both. Will can’t seem to drag his gaze away from the other man’s dark eyes; they sparkle almost amber in the morning light. He wants to lean up and steal another kiss.

“No.” Hannibal seems to want the same, leans down to brush his mouth against Will’s, not a kiss but just a gently teasing movement that makes Will desperate for more. “We are not.”

He kisses Will then with the same depth and sensuality as the night before, pulling him close into his body with one solid arm, tongue tracing his bottom lip before dipping into his mouth, and Will grips Hannibal’s hips to stop himself from swooning forward into the man’s arms. If last night’s kiss was good, this one is exquisite. Just the right amount of pressure, Hannibal’s mouth tasting of sweet mint tea, all the promise of so much more, so much desire held captive behind iron-clad self-control. A low noise of desire spills from Will’s mouth into Hannibal’s, a breathy sound, and he’s backed up until the countertop digs into his lower back and Hannibal moves his arm down to shield him from it.

They break apart but don’t move away from each other, foreheads pressed together, both panting lightly. Will’s hands slide up to grip the front of Hannibal’s t-shirt, one leg pushing between the older man’s, and he can feel him against his hip, thick and erect. Hannibal kisses him again but this time it’s chaste, restrained, bordering on innocent and Will can’t help but let out a breathy laugh. He lowers his forehead to Hannibal’s chest, leaning heavily on his collarbone, feeling slightly hysterical for a reason he can’t pinpoint. Sensing his emotions warring just beneath the surface, Hannibal’s hands smooth up his spine and come to cradle him, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close and resting his lips against his temple.

“What are we doing?” Will whispers, almost to himself, eyes closed as he nuzzles the fabric of Hannibal’s t-shirt, wanting to feel the warmth of skin underneath. Hannibal makes a low sound in his throat, almost a hum, and Will never wants the embrace to end.

“Whatever we want,  _ mon lionceau. _ Whatever  _ you _ want.”

The morning passes in a low blur, Hannibal and Will moving around each other in the kitchen as they prepare breakfast, never too far apart to touch. Hannibal makes a point of always pressing kisses to Will’s cheek, to the back of his neck when he stands at the counter, to his knuckles whenever his hand is free to take, and Will blushes like a schoolgirl at the undivided attention. Hannibal makes him warm oatmeal with honey and nutmeg, again intended to soothe his sore throat, eggs royale for himself, and coffee for both of them with sugar and vanilla cream. Decadent and perfect, the flavour beautifully sweet on Will’s tongue as he sips it. He only ever allows himself the luxury of an occasional cappuccino from the take out joint he passes on his way to work. This coffee is artisanal and delicious, and he could get used to waking up to it.

He dresses in a shirt of Hannibal’s, pants of Hannibal’s, and even borrows underwear which is passed to him with a small smirk. Like everything else in Hannibal’s closet the boxer briefs feel expensive and luxurious, and the fabric is almost unbearably soft as he slides them up his thighs in the privacy of the bathroom. He manages to tame his hair a little and meets Hannibal in the hallway, hyper-aware of the way the other man admires him from head to toe as he descends the stairs.

Hannibal takes his hand, pulls him close into his side and presses a kiss into the mess of curls across his forehead, his arm a heavy weight around his shoulders. Will sighs into his chest.

“I could get used to seeing you in my clothing,” Hannibal says, and opens the front door for him. 

Together, they head to the Bentley and soon they’re weaving through the lunchtime traffic enroute to the BAU, where Will is going to be forced to relive his nightmare. 

Hannibal holds his hand the entire way. 


	9. Chapter 9

Will wishes he’d worn a scarf. Or a turtleneck, if Hannibal possesses such an item. Anything to hide the angry, raw red lines that bisect his throat and cause the skin to tighten and pull every time he swallows or turns his head in either direction. His consciousness is heightened by the eyes that track his movements through the offices of the BAU and therefore the pain feels magnified and more intense than when they had left the safety of Hannibal’s Bentley in the parking lot.

People tend to talk about Will wherever he goes, especially people who have crossed paths with him in a work environment. His reputation precedes him and he despises it. But today, people have a little more to talk about than just Will Graham, the eccentric empath who solves the most complex cases that even the BAU can’t crack. Today, they have the handsome older man with his hand lightly resting on Will’s back to talk about, the distinguished European with the beautiful accent and impeccable manners who opens doors for Will and presses elevator buttons for him, and is never more than half a foot away from him at any time. And talk they do. Will hears their whispers as they pass him in the corridors or as they turn at their desks to stare through partition walls or glass doors. Hannibal must notice, can’t be as oblivious to it all as he pretends to be, but he doesn’t pass comment at all. If anything, he leans in a little closer and presses his hand just a bit more firmly against Will’s lower back, as though he can’t stand to stop touching him even for a moment. And Will, who normally shies away from the touch of any other creature beyond his dogs, finds himself aching for the contact. It helps ground him and the anxiety that would normally be clawing its way up his throat, threatening to burst loose in a scream, is tethered in his belly and feels more like butterflies than anything else. He breathes easier with Hannibal around. His mind is quieter. His shoulders are less tense. His head aches less. 

He feels safe.

Until, that is, he reaches Jack’s office and is welcomed in with a chilly air and directed to a seat in front of his desk. Hannibal draws his own chair closer to Will’s - a move that doesn’t go unnoticed by Jack - and takes a seat, leaning back in his chair and crossing his ankles, the picture of someone unconcerned by the upcoming conversation. Will wishes he had the same confidence. He stares at his hands, avoiding Jack’s icy gaze. A photograph is pushed across the desk towards him but he doesn’t take it. He knows already who it’s an image of.

“His name was Kenneth Royston,” Jack says and Will inhales sharply at hearing the name spoken out loud. So far, since it happened, he’s only heard it echoed in his dreams. “He owned a party planning business and had lived at the trailer park for three years since separating from his wife. But you know all this already, don’t you, Will?”

He nods, still focusing on his hands. Hannibal’s fingers close over his forearm, firm and comforting, and he leans into the touch, uncaring of what Jack thinks. He needs this, needs to feel grounded. 

“Why didn’t you share this with the rest of the team, instead of going off alone like some kind of vigilante?”

“I don’t know,” he hears himself say, but in his heart he does. His regard for his own safety is waning the more he harms himself, and the threat that lay at Royston’s hands was one he almost welcomed. If he had been killed, it would have put a final end to the terror in his mind that he can’t control.

“Tell me how you knew it was him. Tell me how you  _ know _ . Because right now, I’m struggling to put the pieces together.”

“It was him, though, wasn’t it?” Hannibal interjects and there’s no real question there. He trusts Will’s judgement implicitly. “Will knew. And he acted upon that knowledge.”

“At the expense of his own safety and the safety of others around him. What if he had been wrong?” Jack snaps, directing his ire at Hannibal who stares coolly back.

“He wasn’t wrong. He did what any of us would have done, and took down the killer we were hunting for. I’m uncertain why you feel the need to critique his actions.”

“Don’t play games, Doctor Lecter. You know exactly why.” Jack refocuses on Will. “How did you know? Did someone tip you off? Was it Freddie Lounds? Because if you have contacts outside of the FBI who you’re leaking information to…”

“Of course not!” Heat flares up Will’s neck to stain his cheeks and his eyes burn hotly. He’d give anything to be back in the safety of Hannibal’s home. “I remembered something.” He pauses and Jack snorts impatiently. “When Hannibal mentioned a daughter… last year there was an article in the paper about a man who had lost his daughter to suicide. He was a party planner and tattooist, working out of his home. I remembered the picture of his daughter…”

He trails off, lost in memory. Royston’s daughter had been pretty, so pretty. Young, vibrant, dark-haired and slender. So similar to the women her father had killed out of grief, searching for someone to replace the girl he’d lost. So similar to Garrett Jacob Hobbs, who hunted women who reminded him of his daughter. The similarities leave a bad taste in his mouth and he chooses that moment to look up at Jack - only to see Hobbs reflected in the glass bookcase behind the stoic FBI agent. He gasps audibly, blinks, and the image is gone - but both Hannibal and Jack have noticed his reaction.

“Will?” Hannibal leans forward, his hand sliding down Will’s arm to grasp his wrist. “Are you alright?”

“Yes…” He squints at the glass again. Garrett Jacob Hobbs had been behind him,  _ right behind him… _ He doesn’t realise he’s digging his fingers into his thigh, right where two angular cuts bisect his flesh, until Hannibal takes his hand in his and lifts it away. Refocusing, he sees Jack staring at him with a mixture of concern and frustration. “I’m fine. Sorry. What were we saying?”

“You were telling us how you knew it was Royston,” Jack says slowly, watching Will with some unease, as though he might be about to have a breakdown right there in the office. Sweat beads between Will’s shoulder blades and a droplet creeps down his spine. He sips from the glass of water in front of him on Jack’s desk.

“I didn’t know for certain until I got there. I just had a hunch that it could be him. We’d already connected one party planner and it wasn’t her. But I thought it was a worthwhile connection - and I was right. All the girls he killed approached him to plan their celebrations, and all the girls decided to go with someone else. It was a rejection for him. But instead of getting angry, he grew resentful and lonely and decided he wanted them even if they didn’t want him.” 

He pauses again, memory sweeping over him. Royston had answered the door in sweatpants and a wife-beater, and stank of alcohol and Will had known then and there that it was him. He had frozen, the pendulum swinging in front of his vision, as he realised Royston inviting the girls back to his trailer to discuss better options for their parties, cheaper costs, freebies thrown in. He smelled chloroform on the air, saw them drugged and sitting at the small table he could make out through the crack in the door, crying and afraid, begging for their lives. A white dress hang over the back of a chair, prepared for his next victim. He remembers Royston’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him away, his smoke-thick breath stale as he shouted at Will to leave him alone, to get off his property. 

Will had gone for his gun at the same moment as a booted foot connected with his chest, Royston’s position on the steps giving him too much leverage. A choke wire cut off Will’s oxygen. His cry for help caught in his throat.

“...Will? Come back to me, breathe. Will. Inhale, come on. I know you can do this for me.”

His knees hurt and his forehead hurts, he can feel something warm trickling down his temple. He blinks rapidly, clearing his vision to find himself on his knees on Jack’s office floor, Hannibal next to him, rubbing slow circles into his back and encouraging him to breathe. He touches two fingers to his head and they come away bloody - he must have pitched forward and caught himself on Jack’s desk as he collapsed. Embarrassment floods his cheeks even as he struggles to draw breath. Above him, he can hear Hannibal and Jack exchanging sharp, terse words and hears his own name thrown about. 

“This isn’t good for him, Jack. Allow him to leave and take my statement. You have all that you need.”

He can’t say any more. He doesn’t want to relive it again, the weight of the man on top of him and the desperation that led to him doing something he never thought himself capable of just to save himself. What else could he have done? He’d have died beneath the man’s hands otherwise. The stray thought crosses his mind that maybe he should have done, maybe he deserved it too. Maybe they both did. Hannibal’s hands are warm on his shoulder and elbow as he’s helped to his feet.

“Doctor Bloom,” Hannibal says and Will turns sluggishly to see her in the doorway. “Please take Will outside. I won’t be long. Jack and I need to speak alone.”

The door closes firmly behind him, separating him from Hannibal, and Will’s skin crawls as his heart beats so fast it threatens to escape from the confines of his chest. He collapses into a plastic chair beside Alana and drops his head into his hands.

“What are you doing here?” He stares at her shoes, patent heels, legs crossed at the ankle. So like Hannibal in so many ways…

“Jack called me. He was worried about how you’d react to giving a statement.” Alana sounds like she thinks Jack was correct to worry. Will sighs through his teeth and sits up, taking his glasses off and wiping his brow. He’s sweating through Hannibal’s expensive shirt. 

Alana’s eyes move slowly down Will’s body, from the scabbed-over lacerations on his throat to his clenched fists in his lap - her eyes linger on his stomach and he shifts uncomfortably. They take in Hannibal’s tailored shirt and pants. She stares and stares until Will squirms uncomfortably.

“I saw,” she says simply, and Will focuses on the trash can opposite their chairs. “If you ever need to talk, I hope you know I’m here for you.”

Empty promises. Will’s heard plenty of those in his time. ‘I’m here for you’ turns very quickly into frustration, irritation, abandonment eventually, when he fails to get better. 

“Thanks,” he responds, not really meaning it. Alana is sweet and well-meaning, but she keeps her distance and always has. Will trusts her, but only to a point. He certainly wouldn’t trust her enough to understand what goes on in his mind when he cuts, when it’s the only way to quiet the terror. 

“Is he good to you?” Alana asks quietly, and there’s something wistful in her tone. Will isn’t sure if it’s directed at him, at Hannibal, or at their relationship. “Does he take care of you?”

Will doesn’t have an answer. Yes, Hannibal has taken care of him over the last few weeks better than anyone he can ever remember in his entire life. The way Hannibal had held him so close last night when he was feeling so awful, when his thoughts were threatening to drag him under, the way he had held him in the kitchen, had offered tea and breakfast and his own clothing as though it were nothing at all. As though taking care of Will while he spiralled was nothing at all to him. As though he enjoyed it. And that thought alone creates a warm feeling that settles at his core.

_ What are we doing?  _ Will had whispered to him and Hannibal had kissed his mouth and touched his hair and made him feel, in that moment, unbreakable. 

_ Whatever we want, my lion cub.  _ Hannibal had told him and Will had wanted the kisses never to end.  _ Whatever you want. _

“Yes,” Will says, eyes staring through Jack’s closed door to his image of the man behind it. “Yes. He’s perfect to me.”

*

Hannibal’s dreams are hot and frenzied. He dreams of Will, bloodied and desperate, reaching for him in fear as a faceless man chases him towards Hannibal. He dreams of the woods behind Will’s isolated home and the horrors that could lie within them, horrors that don’t even begin to compare to Hannibal himself. He dreams of Will beneath him, gripping his shoulders, his mouth bloody and Hannibal pressing him into the mattress.

He turns in bed, the sheets tangling around his thighs, reaching for Will. But his hands meet a cool, empty space and he snarls in anger. Will isn’t here. He’s at home, at his own house in Wolf Trap, surrounded by his dogs and his own possessions and his own life. He refused Hannibal’s invitation after leaving the BAU, insisting on returning to feed his dogs. Hannibal had driven him there and walked him to the door, one hand on the small of his back, and watched Will go to his knees and bury his face in Winston’s soft fur, shoulders shaking. Hannibal had watched as the last two days’ worth of fear and anger and desperation all bled out into Winston’s coat, watched as the dog sat obediently and nuzzled Will’s curly hair, pawing at his leg once the tremors had stopped. Will had managed to stand up unaided and had turned quickly away, mumbling thanks for the lift home, but not before Hannibal could see the tear tracks on his cheeks. 

Hannibal had wanted to stay yet had left Will to his own devices, sensing that the younger man needed his solitude to attempt to process everything, instead scheduling an hour with him later in the week. 

But now he doesn’t know if he can wait that long. 

He sleeps again, and this time dreams of his last kill. Of mimicking the Minnesota Shrike, and of Will’s certainty that it was a copycat. Will’s face shining in the sunlight, blood on his hands. The antlers spearing creamy flesh. The way it had felt to kill. To prey. To consume. 

Hannibal wakes with the taste for human meat on his tongue. It’s been too long, too long since his last kill. And tonight, something within him cannot be sated. He lies in bed, hands fisted in the sheets and breathing hard, thinking. His Rolodex is downstairs in his office. He could select a business card, plan a menu, and go hunting. It would be so easy. Set up another case to distract Will from his trauma, redirect him back to the Chesapeake Ripper. It would put further strain on an already fragile man, but Hannibal’s curiosity is piqued. Would Will crack under the pressure or thrive? Would the new case help him to get over Royston’s death at his hands -  _ mouth  _ \- or would it push him further into his self-mutilation?

Deciding that it’s too delicious an opportunity to pass up, Hannibal rises from his bed and dresses, immaculately as always. He leaves the house a short while later, a capped syringe in one pocket and a business card in the other, Will’s blue eyes in his mind’s eye. 

The drive to his chosen victim’s house should have been a short one. Ten minutes, if that. But an hour later, Hannibal’s Bentley pulls up in front of a very different home and he cuts the engine, staring out into the misty darkness. He hadn’t meant to drive to Wolf Trap. But Will is calling to him like a beacon and he’s powerless to resist him. 

It’s four in the morning. The house is still and quiet, the porch light on but everywhere else in darkness. The grass catches beneath Hannibal’s shoes and he hears a dog whine from inside. The need to see Will, to touch him, burns deep inside him as he raises his hand to knock. For a long moment he isn’t sure what he’ll do when the door is answered. If the syringe in his pocket might come to good use after all. 

Will opens the door with bleary eyes, hair a mess and blood seeping through the hem of his ragged, threadbare t-shirt. He’s barefoot and shivering and Hannibal doesn’t waste a second. All thoughts of harming the younger man fade away in the face of his fierce need to protect him, to hold him, to be everything he needs now and forever. He takes Will in his arms and kisses him, kisses the surprised gasp from his lips before he can form words, and Will presses forward into him, hands grabbing at his coat and his shirt, stepping out onto the porch as the dogs stream out in confused excitement at the late hour. Hannibal’s hand slides up into Will’s hair as he staggers back, taking the younger man’s weight. Will kisses with fierce desperation, his mouth hot beneath Hannibal’s. When they break apart, Hannibal cups Will’s jaw with both hands and looks into his eyes.

“I missed you.” 

It’s all he can say, and Will nods in understanding. His cheeks and nose are growing pink with the cold and snow has started to fall around them, glittering in the porch light. Hannibal thinks he looks angelic like this, pale skin and clear blue eyes, curls messy and halo-like around his head. 

The Michael to his Lucifer. The alpha to his omega. William Blake’s angels. 

He rests his forehead against Will’s, almost panting with the desire to possess the younger man, to be at one with him. Will is gazing at him with something akin to reverence, lips parted, breath clouding in front of him and mixing with Hannibal’s until it’s impossible to tell which breath belongs to whom. At one.

In another life, perhaps they could have saved each other. But there’s just one problem. 

Hannibal doesn’t want to be saved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [William Blake's 'The Good and Evil Angels'](https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/blake-the-good-and-evil-angels-n05057)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was delayed, but it got kinda long so I hope that makes up for it! Is the burn slow enough for you all yet? ;)

It would be so easy to fall into each other and forget about the rest of the world, but that isn’t what they do. They don’t go to bed at all, in spite of the early hour. They sit at Will’s kitchen table, close to each other, and drink coffee as the dogs mill around them. Hannibal’s hand strokes a gentle caress across Will’s lower back in concentric circles. Outside the sun begins to come up slowly, turning the sky from inky blue to a pale grey, and the stars begin to fade into obscurity.

Then Will allows Hannibal to clean the freshly-inflicted wounds to his stomach and thighs. He strips his t-shirt off wordlessly and sits on the edge of the bed, eyes on his hands as Hannibal takes off his waistcoat and rolls up his sleeves, going to his knees in front of Will. 

“You’re the only person I know who would dress in a full suit at four in the morning,” Will muses, mainly to distract himself from how awkward he feels. Hannibal lifts his t-shirt and makes a small, hurt little sound at the sight of a jagged cut beneath Will’s navel. He straightens and heads for the bathroom and the medical kit stored there.

“Lie back, please. It will be easier that way.” 

Hannibal returns with the items he needs and Will lies on his unmade bed, watching him nervously. He’s stripped off his shirt and is holding it in a ball with both hands, protecting his stomach. He doesn’t want Hannibal to see his loss of control. Tears of humiliation spark behind his eyes and he closes them quickly, attempting to hide, but he isn’t quick enough. Silvery tears bead at the corners of his eyes and drip down his temples into his hair and he flinches as Hannibal brushes them away with the back of his knuckles.

“Darling Will. Please don’t cry. You have no reason to.”

“No reason to?” Will’s bark of laughter is slightly hysterical and he releases his t-shirt to cover his face with his hands instead. “Are you joking?”

“I rarely make jokes, Will. Especially not at another person’s expense.” The bed dips and a warm hand combs through his hair. “And I would never dream of making one at yours. Especially not with you in this state.”

“And what state is that, Doctor Lecter?” There’s still a note of hysteria in his voice and Will can feel it bubbling just beneath the surface. He turns his head in, towards Hannibal’s thigh, hiding. “I’m a fucking wreck. Why do you even want me?”

“For more reasons than I can possibly put into words.” Hannibal busies himself with latex gloves and antiseptic, and Will flinches at the sting of the liquid on his traumatised skin. The cut is neat and clean, but the one below it gives Hannibal some pause. It’s red at the edges and looks sore; he runs a finger across it and feels Will tense. 

“You must take care of these, Will. An infection would be incredibly painful.” The waistband of Will’s pajama pants sits neatly across this cut, no doubt worrying it and causing chafing, irritating the skin. 

“I will.” His voice is muffled, his face still presses to Hannibal’s thigh. He seems to be taking comfort from the proximity. When Hannibal finishes, stripping off the gloves and setting the medical kit aside, he doesn’t push Will away. Instead, he holds him and strokes his hair until the younger man’s breath evens out and he begins to fall asleep. 

“Hannibal?” It’s a low whisper, a slur, and almost inaudible. 

“Yes?” He reclines on his side next to Will, cradling him close. 

“Thank you.”

Then sleep takes Will and drags him under and he doesn’t wake for many hours. 

*

“We should discuss what happened at Royston’s trailer, Will.” 

It’s seven-thirty-five, Friday night. Hannibal is settled in his leather chair, comfortable in his own territory, yet Will wanders the room looking tense and anxious, his shoulders and spine stiff as he walks. He seems unable to take a seat, constantly moving, restless. Exactly as Hannibal would expect him to be after such a trauma.

He watches as Will approaches the ladder, gazes up at the bookshelves on the gallery, and seems to think better of climbing it. He knows the younger man is frowning even though he’s facing away from him. The set of his shoulders gives him away. 

“I already gave Jack a statement. I don’t really want to talk about it anymore, Hannibal. Or think about it.” Will leans his forearm on the rung of the ladder and rests his forehead against it. “I just want to forget about it.”

“You know that isn’t likely. Your mind doesn’t work that way and even if it did, forgetting such a trauma is usually indicative of it doing you more damage than good. Suppressing the feelings of anger, fear, guilt…”

“Guilt?” Will turns on him, incredulous. “You think I feel  _ guilty  _ that he’s dead?”

“I think you feel guilty about being the one to take his life. About the way you did it. Yes.”

“You’re out of your mind.” Will gives him a look tinged with disgust but Hannibal can see beneath it. He’s right on the mark. “Royston was a killer. He killed girls barely out of their teens. The world is better off without him in it.”

“Alright. So let us assume you don’t feel any guilt about the situation. How did it make you feel?” Hannibal crosses his legs at the ankle, watches Will blink at the question, internalise it, consider his answer.

“At the time? I don’t know, I barely remember it.” He’s lying and he’s putting little to no effort into being convincing. “It was horrible. It was…” 

He trails off, eyes glossing over and gaze fixing on a point between the rungs of the ladder, and Hannibal waits. Waits quietly for Will to remember, to draw his emotions from the memory, to let them spill from him in the safety of Hannibal’s office. It may take time, but it will come. 

And it does. Moments pass slowly, with Will lost in thought and Hannibal watching the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, then Will blinks lazily and turns so he’s almost facing Hannibal entirely.

“It was… intimate. I could feel his pulse beneath my mouth, feel his life as I tore it from him. And it felt…” Will exhales, runs a hand through his hair, closes his eyes and tilts his head up to the ceiling. “Not  _ good _ . It could never feel good. Killing is the ugliest thing in the world. But it was…”

“Exhilarating,” Hannibal says quietly, and Will’s eyes snap open to focus on him in shock.

“Yes. That’s awful, I know it is. There’s nothing to feel any thrill about. I  _ killed  _ him, Hannibal! He died beneath my teeth. I don’t even… How can I live with myself after this? I can’t!”

“And what is the alternative? Following him into oblivion yourself? Why? What purpose would that serve?”

“Perhaps I deserve it,” Will says, his voice an octave lower and Hannibal strains to hear him. “A life for a life.”

“Will. That trade has already taken place, signed and sealed in Royston’s blood on your lips. The natural order of the universe has been reset.”

Will snorts, loudly. “For god’s sake, Hannibal. How do you manage to make murder sound so poetic?”

Hannibal eyes him passively, refusing to rise to the comment. “Murder? Are you referring to Royston’s actions, or to your own?”

“Both.” Will crosses the room slowly, taking in the objects on Hannibal’s desk, the leather chaise, the drape of the curtains, and stands at the window looking out. “Both, I suppose. The end result is the same.”

“Your actions were self-defence. His were premeditated. Do you see no difference?”

“In semantics only. It feels like you’re trying to justify what I did.”

“I’m trying to help you work through your feelings about the incident. I’m your therapist. It’s my job to try and help you.” 

“Are you? Just my therapist? It seems as though the lines are a little blurred these days.” Will deflects, brushing imaginary fluff from his pants. 

“Off the record, yes, I am still your therapist, Will. I want to help you. How we behave in our own time is entirely separate to this.”

“You think?” Will shakes his head. “It sounds so simple when you say it like that.”

“Believe me, Will, my feelings for you have no impact on my therapy. 

“You… have feelings for me?” Will sounds a little choked and Hannibal inclines his head thoughtfully.

“You doubted that?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“A discussion for another time, I believe.” Hannibal crosses his ankles, folds his arms over his stomach. “You’re apt at changing the conversation topic when you’re uncomfortable with it.”

Will laughs, a soft little sound, and runs his hand through his hair, ruffling up his curls. “And you let me.”

“I do. Although it does leave me at my wits end sometimes.” Hannibal smiles at him. “But it gives me a better idea of the subjects you find the most difficult to discuss, therefore I can approach them in alternative ways.”

“Or not at all. I’d prefer that.” Will takes his seat opposite Hannibal, resting his elbows on his knees and gazing at the patch of floor between his feet. “But I know you won’t let me skirt round anything for too long.”

“No. Not for too long.”

Hannibal doesn’t mention the incident at Royston’s trailer again. He’ll find another way to bring it up at a later date, when Will’s defences are down and he’ll be more amenable to revealing further detail about what went on. Hannibal wants Will to feel in control, that he can curl inward and protect himself when he needs to, like a porcupine when threatened by a predator. His tongue can be just as sharp as a spine when provoked, and Hannibal is not keen to draw that reaction out of him tonight. 

Instead, they discuss menial topics: Jack, a past FBI case involving a missing agent, Will’s dogs, Will’s home, and finally Hannibal’s dinner plans. He doesn’t invite Will specifically, hoping he will invite himself. Will’s blue eyes flash at the mention of food and he grips the arms of his chair a little tighter.    
  


“I should go.” Will doesn’t move from his seat. “It’s late. I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Then I’ll invoice you for the additional hour.” Hannibal smiles at him through his steepled finger tips; they both know he will do no such thing. “Please allow me to drive you home. It has been a taxing evening for you.”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks. The weather isn’t so bad.” Will still hasn’t got up or made any movement to suggest his departure is imminent. Hannibal watches him carefully.

“Are you sleeping well at home, Will?”

He receives a derisive snort in response. 

“I think you know the answer to that.” He stands then, picks up his messenger bag and holds it by the long strap, the bag resting against his shins. He stares down at it in silence for a moment, lamplight reflecting in his glasses. “The house feels too large for me sometimes. Even with the dogs. It’s… lonely.”

“I can imagine. You’re very isolated.”

“My own design. And I enjoy it, generally. But these days, with everything that happened with Royston, it’s…” Will rolls his shoulders, shuffles his feet, looks generally uncomfortable in his own skin. His hand strays to his stomach, likely an unconscious movement. Hannibal follows it with his eyes. “It’s hard. But you know that already, too.”

“If you had a choice,” Hannibal muses. “Where would you sleep tonight?”

“What?” Will jerks his head up, surprised out of his reverie. “What do you mean?”

 “I mean, where would you like to sleep tonight if you were given the chance?”

“I… I don’t know.” The red flush creeping up his neck says that he does know, he just doesn’t want to voice his answer.

“A different question then. Where would you like to dine? Do you have something planned at home?”

“I have Mac and Cheese...” Will says it uncertainly, looking down at his hands. “And sausage for the dogs.”

“They seem to eat better than you. Join me for dinner, Will. Sleep at my house tonight, if you wish. We can talk further if you’d like, or we can simply eat and sleep. Whatever you like.”

Will is silent for a moment, a long moment, and Hannibal suddenly fears he might say no. But he nods, dark curls falling into his eyes as he does so, and smiles shyly as Hannibal meets his gaze.

*

The drive to Chandler Square isn’t a lengthy one, but it’s long enough for Will to work himself up into a nervous frenzy, one which he knows permeates the air in the Bentley, seeps from his pores, makes his hands tremble in his lap. As they turn into Hannibal’s street, his hand is taken and his fingers squeezed warmly. He gazes down at their linked hands, heart fluttering in his throat like a hummingbird.

“Relax, my little cub. Nothing will happen tonight that you do not wish for. If all you want is to sleep then my guest room is yours. If your desire company then I am at your service. You have but to ask.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Will whispers. “You make me question everything I thought I knew.”

He gazes out of the window at the passing shops and houses. Christmas is drawing near and the city is beginning to decorate itself for the festivities. Twinkling fairy lights adorn every window, shops proudly display gifts for that important someone, and everyone seems to have a cheer about them even as they bustle their way down the street laden with bags and wrapped up in scarves. Will gazes at them with detached observation; he's never been one for Christmas celebrations. He's never really had anyone to celebrate with, not for as long as he can remember. Yet again, watching a couple walk hand-in-hand and smile at each other with red noses and rosy cheeks, he feels a pang of longing. 

The car purrs to a halt and Hannibal unfastens his seatbelt. Will immediately misses the warmth of his hand. Before he gets out of the Bentley, Hannibal grazes his jaw gently with the back of his knuckles, regarding him affectionately in the darkness.

“Is that not the core concept of love?”

Then he’s stepping out into the rain leaving Will alone in the silent car with his mouth open in shock, hands clenching into fists in his lap, watching as Hannibal climbs the steps to his house and unlocks the front door. Inside, a lamp burns in the hallway and the townhouse looks warm and inviting. Hannibal turns in the doorway to call back to him.

“Will. Come in out of the cold. Please.”

He goes. Hannibal locks the car remotely, waits for him at the top of the steps and follows him inside with a hand on the small of his back. Will’s skin tingles beneath his coat and the layers of his clothing. As soon as the door closes behind them the temperature in the room seems to rise a couple of degrees and Will’s mouth runs dry. He’s very, very aware that they’re alone in Hannibal’s house together and that he could have gone home to his own house but chose not to. He knows Hannibal has feelings for him, intense feelings if the comment in the car is anything to go by, and their last kiss had been heated, passionate, loaded with unspoken promises of what could occur if they were left alone.

They’re alone now. And he’s almost afraid to turn to Hannibal and see what’s contained in that dark gaze. 

He doesn’t have to. Hannibal moves in close behind him, lowers his lips to the back of Will’s neck and kisses his skin through his curls.

“What do you want, little lion? Tell me, and you shall have it.”

“I don’t know,” Will whispers, lowering his chin to give Hannibal more access to his neck. He hasn’t got a clue what he wants, but he knows what he doesn’t. He knows what he isn’t ready for and he feels a stab of fear as he contemplates telling Hannibal. Perhaps a shudder runs through him because Hannibal wraps an arm around his waist, coaxing him to relax back into the embrace.

“I think you do,” Hannibal murmurs. “Tell me, Will. Do you just wish to sleep tonight? I told you at the office if that’s all you desire then my home is at your disposal. I shall not pressure you towards anything you do not want.”

Will swallows hard, blinking away unwelcome moisture from his eyes. 

“I don’t want to sleep alone,” he whispers and Hannibal presses a kiss to the bolt of his jaw.

“Then you shall not. You are welcome in my home, Will, tonight and every night should you wish it.” He squeezes the nape of Will’s neck in a curiously dominant, affectionate gesture and parts from him to hang his coat up and extend a hand to ask for Will’s. “I shall make up the guest room.”

Once the bedroom is ready for Will, Hannibal leads him to the living room where the fire is lit and presses a glass of wine into his hands. He kisses Will on the temple, tells him to relax, then vanishes to the kitchen to cook. Dinner is confit duck leg with orange jus and figs, and Will devours it like a man starving to death. Dessert is a lemon sorbet and Will makes short work of that, too, and another glass of wine. Then a small glass of sweet port in the living room at Hannibal’s side before they both climb the stairs to retire to bed. 

At the doorway to the guest bedroom, Hannibal stops him with a gentle hand on his hip.

“Will. I ask only one thing in return for my hospitality tonight.” Hannibal tucks a curl behind Will’s ear, his eyes dark and serious in the lamplight. He holds his hand out between them, palm up, and Will stares down at his long, elegant fingers, wary of the request. “Your knife. Please.”

“What?” Will darts a look up at him, sudden panic clenching at his throat and bringing an immediate clamminess to his palms. “I don't know what you mean.”

“You do. The knife you use to harm yourself is in your messenger bag, in the bedroom on the chair. May I have it, please?”

It’s so tempting to lie to him, to say he doesn’t have the knife with him, that it’s at home and he wouldn’t use it even if it  _ was _ in his bag. But something within him stops the lie behind his teeth and he just drops his gaze, shrugs, then nods.

“Okay.” 

“Thank you, Will. Please retrieve it for me.”

He’s acutely aware of Hannibal’s amber eyes on his back, following his every move as he walks to the chair where his messenger bag sits, opens it, and fishes the blade with the ivory handle out of the front pocket. It’s wrapped in an old t-shirt and he unfolds it slowly, watching it gleam in the light from the table lamp. Slowly, he returns to the doorway and hands it to Hannibal who takes it with such reverence that Will could have just handed him the Sancy diamond. His fingers close over the handle and he holds it close to his chest, watching as Will’s gaze follows the blade.

“Thank you, Will. Goodnight.”

Later, Will lies in the comfort of Hannibal’s guest room staring up at the ceiling, wide awake. The shadows seem to swirl and dance in the corners, threatening him with what they hide, and every so often he’s sure he hears the snort of an animal coming from the hallway. The stag, lying in wait, hoping for the chance to insert itself back into Will’s subconscious mind. He swallows, hard. He can’t let it back in. He’s afraid of what will happen if he does. 

He turns to lie on his stomach, wrapping the comforter tightly around him in a cocoon, eyes screwed tightly shut, willing sleep to come. He tries to clear his mind, to imagine a blank blackboard or the endless pull of a black hole, but nothing works. In his prone position every inhale and exhale expands his ribs and the cuts on his stomach tug unpleasantly. The freshest, put there only a day ago, twinges and he considers reopening it with his fingernails. But that would run the risk of leaving blood streaked on Hannibal’s expensive sheets and he doesn’t dare imagine the disappointment on the man’s face should that happen. 

He aches. Aches for something just out of reach, and he isn’t sure if it’s pain or pleasure that he’s seeking. Or something in-between, something murky and incorporeal, something at the very tips of his fingers that he’s struggling to reel in. He imagines Hannibal, asleep down the hall, and his chest aches in longing for the older man’s proximity. For his hands. For how caring and gentle he’s been when Will has been afraid, in pain, or in need. For the touch of his lips to his forehead, or his fingers brushing his curls back from his face. He aches for Hannibal, in his entirety. 

It isn’t a conscious decision, sliding out of bed and padding out into the hallway, walking down the corridor with almost unseeing eyes until he’s standing at the closed door to Hannibal’s bedroom. It’s as though he’s propelled by an invisible force, a hand on his back forcibly pushing him towards Hannibal. All he knows for sure is that not only will he not get a wink of sleep if he doesn’t at least set eyes on Hannibal just once more that night, but he might go insane if he doesn’t. Steeling his nerves, he raises his hand into a fist and knocks. 

The object of his affection isn’t asleep, as Will had feared. Hannibal is sitting up in bed, managing somehow to look regal and composed even in his nightwear, reading a book by the lamplight. He doesn’t look at all surprised to see Will push the door open; he lowers the book and watches him for a moment without speaking. Will wonders what he looks like, whether he’s managing to pull off cool and detached or if he looks as dishevelled and on-edge as he feels. He tries, and fails, to relax his shoulders and jaw and only succeeds in feeling more and more strained as the seconds go by. If Hannibal doesn’t  _ say something  _ he may very well go mad standing right here in his doorway. There’s a fire lit in the hearth, it’s warmth reaching in soft tendrils towards him, and he wants nothing more to climb onto the bed and cuddle up at Hannibal’s side, the way they had done only a week earlier when Will was injured and broken and in need of care. Is that how Hannibal needs him to be, in order to give him the affection he’s beginning to obsess over? And if so, just how willing is he to go that far?

“Is it your knife you seek?” Hannibal asks him from the bed, finally, cool and composed as ever in spite of the weight of his words. “Because I'm afraid I won't be giving it to you. There's an entire kitchen full downstairs if you're feeling overwhelmed with that need. Or is your cutting ritualistic?” He turns a dark, intense gaze on Will who shifts from one foot to the other beneath it. “You have to use the same knife, cut in the same pattern. Is that it, Will? Is that why you can't sleep?”

He shakes his head slowly, mute, completely unsettled by Hannibal’s words. He only realises then that there is something ritualistic in the way he harms himself. Doing it with a knife from Hannibal’s kitchen drawer would feel absolutely wrong; the thought alone causes an unpleasant twist in his stomach. Hannibal regards him passively.

“If it isn’t the knife, then something else. What is it that you desire, Will? Why can’t you sleep?”

He doesn’t need to answer. Hannibal knows, it’s clear in his eyes. He pushes back the covers and crosses the room in a few steps, Will freezing in place at the anticipation of how warm his body would be from such time spent lying in bed. And he’s right: Hannibal’s hand is enticing as it runs down his arm, wraps around his waist, and his lips feel searing hot as they caress the skin of his neck. He tilts his head, wants for more.

“You seek company, Will. You do not wish to sleep alone. You wish to sleep with me. But what else do you wish for, my little lion cub? What else can I give you?”

He can only nod, then shake his head, leaning in closer to Hannibal’s body heat, then Hannibal moves to capture his mouth and kisses him fiercely - it’s a hot, passionate claim and Will melts into it. 

Hannibal’s hands slide down his back, cup his ass briefly before moving under his thighs to lift him easily, turning and kicking the bedroom door closed behind him. Will gasps into his mouth, clinging to his shoulders as Hannibal walks them backwards until he’s seated on the bed, Will straddling his lap on his knees, and their kisses become more intense. Deeper. A reckless heat is building between them that brings a flush to Hannibal’s throat and colour to Will’s cheeks and he breaks away to press hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin of Hannibal’s neck. Need is sparking through every nerve ending and he wants the older man with a ferocious intensity that seems to have come out of nowhere. An intensity that should feel driven by passion and desire but somehow seems to fall short and Will kisses deeper, harder, in an attempt to ignite the sparks of passion he knows he should be feeling. His body responds half-heartedly with a low pulse of arousal between his legs and he chases it, pressing closer, trying to inject more heat into his kisses. 

Hannibal, on the other hand, has stilled in his movements and is just taking it, allowing Will to dominate him but not kissing him back with more than token enthusiasm. After a few more seconds of Will attempting to force a spark of desire to ignite between them, Hannibal presses him back gently. There’s a question in his eyes, concern, and he cups Will’s jaw to press their mouths together gently, a light kiss which feels more of a goodbye than a promise of more. Distressed, Will whines deep in his throat and fists his hands in Hannibal’s t-shirt. 

“Please, Hannibal,” he hears himself whisper into the older man’s throat. “I want this. You. I need… I need to feel something. Please. Please don’t reject me.”

It sounds plaintive and pathetic and he’s utterly humiliated by his own neediness, but the words spill out raw and unfiltered. He waits, waits for Hannibal to sigh and ease him off his lap, but when it doesn’t happen he clings closer. Hands come up to comb through his hair, attempting in vain to smooth unruly curls, and Hannibal cradles him close. Will can hear his own heart pounding in his ears. He’s vaguely conscious of the fact that in spite of the fiery way he’s been attacking Hannibal’s mouth and throat, he’s only half-hard between his thighs, his body uncertain and only responding out of some latent memory that kisses this intense should, usually, lead to sex. It isn’t that he doesn’t want Hannibal; he does, god, he wants him. But not now, not like this. It only serves to make him feel both more ashamed of himself and more desperate for Hannibal to have him. 

“Will. Darling Will.” Hannibal kisses his temple. “You’re so afraid that I’ll dismiss you that you’ll do this even when it isn’t what you truly want.”

“I do, I do want to. I want this.” Will seeks Hannibal’s mouth with a fresh bout of desperation but Hannibal turns his head away and Will’s kiss lands harmlessly on his cheekbone. “Hannibal-”

A hand moves up his thigh in a caress, then cups his groin and Will reflexively arches into it. Anything to make Hannibal want him, want to do this with him. But it feels wrong. He wants to shake Hannibal’s hand off him, feels his skin tighten and crawl at the sensation of being touched so intimately. He doesn’t feel ready for this level of contact and he hides it by pressing his face once again into Hannibal’s neck to hide his discomfort, hoping he can pass it off as desire. Begging himself to calm down, to relax, to let it happen. But Hannibal isn’t so easily fooled. 

“Will. This isn’t the right time for this. You’re upset. What you’re seeking isn’t sexual contact,” The hand cupping him moves away, up his chest to caress his jaw and he’s turned so that Hannibal can look into his eyes, held fast with firm, gentle fingers. “This isn’t the kind of intimacy you crave at this moment. And it isn’t something I’m willing to give you, not when you don’t truly desire it.”

“I do. I want you, I…” Bizarrely, he feels as though he might cry. Cry tears of frustration, of anger at himself and his own body for daring not to respond how he commanded it to, of relief that Hannibal sees what’s in his heart and not just in his feeble attempts at seduction. Of humiliation, because how can a man like Hannibal ever be attracted to someone as weak as he?

“I don’t doubt that, my little cub. But not tonight you don’t. Not like that.” Hannibal leans in and kisses him sweetly on the mouth, all passion melted away now. Will leans in, seeking the contact, still afraid of being pushed aside. “One day,  _ mon coeur _ . But not today.”

“Don’t you want me?” Will murmurs, cheeks aflame and a solid ache pounding beneath his ribs. This was a mistake, such a vast misstep, coming to Hannibal this way. He should have stayed in his own bed, used his fingernails and his own teeth to placate himself instead, turning in on himself instead of showing just how broken and desperate he really is. 

“My darling.” There’s heartache in Hannibal’s tone and before Will can pull away or press any closer he’s being turned and lowered down to the bed on his back, Hannibal moving his leg to lie down beside him, propped up on an elbow and tracing Will’s lips with the tip of his finger. “I want you more than you’ll ever know. In ways that would likely scare you from me forever should I confess them. Do not take this as a rejection because it is far from that. All I wish for is you spread out beneath me, consumed by a pleasure only I can give you. I think of it endlessly. But intimacy takes many forms, and tonight I think all you want is the comfort of my embrace. You’re starved of love and affection, my little lion, and there’s no shame in wanting only that.”

Will has to swallow and blink a few times in rapid succession before he feels composed enough to respond to Hannibal’s words. Somehow, the man always manages to say so beautifully things that Will would keep hidden from the world given half the chance. It’s unsettling, yet so addictive that he almost begs to hear more. 

“You’ll tire of me,” Is what he says instead. “If that’s all I can offer.”

“I don’t think it is all you can offer me, my dear.” Hannibal leans down to steal a kiss from his lips. “But tonight it’s all I’m willing to take.”

He settles at Will’s side, wrapping an arm around him and kissing his collarbone beneath his t-shirt. Will can feel the knot of tension beneath his ribs slowly uncoiling. 

“What do you want,  _ mon amour? _ ” Hannibal whispers to him, and although Will’s skill at the French language borders on non-existent the two words aren’t lost on him and he closes his eyes against the wave of emotion they release inside him.  _ Mon amour _ . My love. Unbidden, a single tear seeps free of his lashes to trickle down his temple and lose itself in his hair. He has to consciously regulate his breathing. Hannibal wipes the wet trail away with a fingertip and repeats the phrase into Will’s hair, his voice low and accent thick as he does. 

_ Mon amour _ . My love. 

“You,” Will manages to choke out through a throat tight with threatening tears. “Only you.”

“Then you shall have me, my love. Any way you want me.”

Will turns his head to meet Hannibal’s kiss, breath coming in short bursts as he scarcely allows himself to believe what he’s being told, and they lie together under the pile of blankets, embracing, watching each other as the fire burns, glows, and dies out as the night goes on. 


	11. Chapter 11

Hannibal wakes slowly, drawn beautifully from a restful sleep by a dark scent, rich and slightly bitter, a strong roast with the distinct sweetness of vanilla. It hangs thick in the air around him and he turns towards it, nuzzling softly into the pillows. He cracks an eye open and a smile curls his lips at the sight before him. Will is on his side of the bed, perched on the edge beside Hannibal with one foot tucked beneath him, eyes sparkling in the morning light, hands clasped around a steaming mug that Hannibal recognises from his own kitchen. He looks soft and sleep-ruffled, curls tumbling in his eyes and his soft sleep pants scrunched up to reveal a pale line of his ankle where it disappears under his thigh. 

“Good morning,” Will murmurs, smiling; it’s a crooked little smile and Hannibal aches to sit up and kiss it from his lips. “I made you some coffee. I think I remembered how you like it.”

“It smells perfect.” Hannibal pushes himself up to sit against the headboard, reaching for Will and the mug simultaneously. “You are very sweet to me, Will Graham. I could certainly get used to waking up this way.”

He tucks a stray curl behind Will’s ear, thinking for the hundredth time that the younger man could do with a haircut. As he takes the mug he ponders what Will could have seen in his kitchen while he was exploring, opening the refrigerator to stare curiously at the contents while he located the milk. He would likely see slices of kidney, thin slivers of liver, tenderised steaks piled atop each other, ready for seasoning and marinating - all easily passed off as beef or venison to the untrained and blissfully naive eye. He watches Will closely for any signs that something might be amiss and, finding none, leans in to steal a kiss from his mouth. 

“The coffee is exactly how I like it, thank you. Did you make some for yourself?”

“Yes.” Will brushes some imaginary fluff off the comforter. “I finished it already. I couldn’t sleep.”

“The hour is early,” Hannibal muses, taking Will’s hand and stroking the back of his injured wrist with a thumb. The bandages have now been taken off and the stitches will need removing in the next few days. “Your sleep was troubled again?”

“Not for that reason. No nightmares.” 

Will shrugs a shoulder, a light dusting of pink rising to his cheeks. He shuffles a little closer on the edge of the bed and Hannibal takes the hint, putting his coffee and tugging Will down into his arms on top of the comforter. Will cuddles closer with a happy little sigh and Hannibal strokes his hair, content for the moment just to hold him. He’s noticed over their time together that Will won’t ever seek out Hannibal’s comfort by himself. When prompted, he will cuddle close, nuzzling in and becoming soft and pliant in Hannibal’s arms. But otherwise he waits for his invitation, always a little stiff and a little formal. Touch-starved and robbed of affection by all those in his life who seek nothing but his mind and care little for the man who cultivates it. It makes Hannibal seethe to think of people treating his little lion with anything less than the reverence he deserves. 

Will is everything he thinks he isn’t. He’s strength, resilience, beauty, intelligence, all wrapped up in the body of someone strong-willed and driven by his fears. The way he gravitates towards Hannibal is beautiful in itself, and it makes Hannibal want to wrap him in his arms and hide him away in the depths of his home forever, to protect him from the world that seeks to harm him and see him so broken he cannot get back up again. Hannibal could tend to him lovingly, give him all that he needs. He wonders if Will will ever allow him that luxury.

Beside him, Will is a nervous bundle of energy, shifting and wriggling and seemingly unable to get comfortable. He keeps glancing up at Hannibal then away again with parted lips, second-guessing himself, and Hannibal knows he will need some prompting to say whatever it is that’s on the tip of his tongue.

“What is it, Will? You look as though you wish to ask me something.”

“Yeah, I do.” Will leans into Hannibal’s palm, his eyes soft. He’s quiet for a moment, watching Hannibal through his lashes. “Will you shower with me?”

In answer, Hannibal presses a kiss to his lips, taking a moment to deepen it, to pull Will a little closer. “Of course, little lion. Anything for you. Why do you ask?”

“I remember you showering with me before. After Royston… After.” Will shakes his head, stopping. Rerouting. Dismissing the name from his lips. “I remember your hands. It felt… I liked it. But I barely remember it.” He presses close, curling like a cat. “I want to remember it this time.”

“Then I’d better make it worth remembering. Come,” Hannibal sits up, dislodging Will and taking his hand. “Let me get the water warm for you.”

It takes only seconds for the water to come through hot from the monsoon shower and soon the bathroom is bathed in steam. Will and Hannibal face each other, not touching, just watching each other and waiting for the other to make the first move.

“I want to see you,” Will murmurs, whispering only because he feels as though he should. The rush of water demands that he speaks no louder than it and Hannibal seems to agree, nodding seriously in response. 

“And I want you to. Undress me, Will.”

Will’s hands tremble a little as they come to the hem of Hannibal’s t-shirt, lifting it slowly to expose his stomach, his chest, his clavicles, then it’s off and being tossed aside. Hannibal considers reprimanding him for it but is momentarily distracted by Will stepping forward and closing the gap between them, his eyes on Hannibal’s chest. He raises a hand, hovering it inches from Hannibal’s chest. 

“Can I touch you?” Will asks innocently, his voice still low and quiet. Hannibal nods once and Will lowers his hand, exploring the planes of Hannibal’s pecs, his abs, the soft flesh of his sides, up across his ribs. His touch ignites fire beneath Hannibal’s skin and he wants to ravage Will right there on the bathroom floor, tear his clothing off with his teeth, press him down on his stomach and just  _ take.  _ Instead, he allows Will his slow exploration of his body, standing utterly still as Will’s blue eyes roam across him, up to meet his gaze then lower as curious fingers tug at his waistband. 

“Please remove those too, Will.” Hannibal says softly. “It will be very difficult to shower with them on.”

Taking a breath, Will slides the fingers of both hands into Hannibal’s waistband and slides the pants down, having to ease them over the hard line of Hannibal’s erection. They pool at his feet and Hannibal doesn’t move, instead encouraging Will to his knees to remove them with the back of his hand gentle on the young man’s collarbone. Will goes neatly, helps Hannibal out of the clothing then, finally, raises his eyes to look. 

Between his thighs, Hannibal’s cock is thick and hard as it curves upwards towards his stomach. He’s uncut, heavy, and aroused to the point that the foreskin stretches back to expose the head, flushed a shade darker than the shaft; dark hair curls in a nest at the base, balls hanging heavy between his thighs. Will cannot stop staring at him, eye-level and lustful. It would be so easy to press the tip to his lips, encourage Will to suck him, but not yet. He will practice, as he always does, a level of self-restraint. 

“You’re so big,” Will breathes, then his eyes widen in shock at his own words that seem to have spilled out without his consent. He ducks his head, embarrassed, and Hannibal draws his gaze back up with a cupped hand under his chin. 

“I ache for you, gorgeous boy,” Hannibal murmurs, muscles in his forearms tense with restraint, only barely stopping himself from reaching for Will and pulling him forward onto his cock. “My little cub. My fierce lion. My Will.  _ Mon amour.  _ Allow me to undress you in return.”

There’s no question in his tone; it’s posed as a command but in his nerves and eagerness, Will doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t mind and that sparks lust through Hannibal’s veins. Being able to order the younger man around would be something extra special to him, knowing Will would acquiesce to anything he wished with minimal questioning. Something to be explored in the future, certainly. 

Will nods, speech momentarily stolen from him as he stands straight once again, and Hannibal lifts his t-shirt up and over his head, discarding it in the same direction as Will did his own. He’s intimately familiar with Will’s body already yet still feels a thrill of excitement, of newness, as he explores the planes of his hairless chest. Will must wax, a fact Hannibal finds so intriguing considering Will’s general disinterest in anything to do with the aesthetics of his appearance. He says as much and Will shrugs, hands quaking with little tremors. 

“It feels better. Do you not like it?”

There’s uncertainty in his tone and Hannibal is instantly convinced that if he says no Will won’t ever wax his chest again. But instead he leans in and lowers his lips to the curve of Will’s neck, pressing the softest of kisses there. 

“You are perfect in every way, darling boy. I adore you just as you are. Never change a thing.”

He slides his fingers into the waistband of the expensive pyjama pants, adoring the way his clothing clings to Will’s narrow hips, and slides them down slowly, carefully, intrigued to know whether Will is as hard as he is or if his nerves are still getting the better of him. His own cock aches, pulses out a single drop of clear fluid, and he wonders what Will would look like on his knees, tasting him. It’s an imagine he commits to memory, resolving to explore it at the first opportunity. 

When Will’s pyjama pants are on the floor, kicked away, Hannibal raises his eyes to Will’s face, surprised to see him gazing steadfastly ahead, jaw clenched, looking just shy of embarrassed. Hannibal draws him closer with an arm around his hips, pressing a gentle, deep kiss to his mouth. Then, with his free hand he reaches between them, down between Will’s legs, and caresses him. He’s not erect, but not soft either. Hannibal remembers what his cock looks like from their earlier times together, and as he kisses Will with slow deliberation he imagines it plump and pink in his hand, hardening slowly under his touch. Will squirms, arousal starting to build between his thighs, and Hannibal kisses a low intake of breath from his lips. There’s still space between them, still time for Will to break away and pull back should he want to, but as Hannibal moves to look into Will’s eyes he sees nothing but nervous lust there, hiding behind dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. 

“Yes?” He whispers, squeezing Will gently until he sucks in a breath through his teeth. He’s asking for confirmation as a formality of sorts. Even if Will changes his mind now he’s in no doubt that the young man would go through with it anyway. But by the low groan Will makes as he presses into Hannibal’s hand and grips at his pecs, the word ‘no’ is nowhere near his lips at the present time. 

“Yes. God, yes. Please, Hannibal. I want this.” Will ducks his head, presses his forehead into Hannibal’s chest. “I want it so much.”

Taking Will gently by the hand, moving slowly so as not to rupture the delicate intimacy that has settled upon them, Hannibal draws Will with him towards the shower until they’re both standing under the spray. They can’t take their eyes off each other. The air between them is thick with steam and promise, and Will’s chest heaves as he takes slow, deliberate breaths. They’re still holding hands. Hannibal draws him close with his other arm around his waist and buries his face in Will’s neck, lapping the gathering water from the hollow of his clavicle. As Will’s half-hard cock brushes against Hannibal’s erection the younger man lets loose a low whine, hands coming up to grab at Hannibal’s sides as he presses closer, seeking the contact. His hips jerk experimentally, friction bringing him to full hardness, and he dips his head back with a low sigh. 

“Does that feel good, Will?” Hannibal croons into his neck where he’s sucked a dark red mark that will be visible just above the collar of Will’s shirts. His mark looks good on the young man, like it belongs there. He wants Will to wear it with the type of shy pride that would be irresistible on him. Hannibal closes his eyes, slides his hand up to hold Will between his shoulder blades, keeping him close, and breathes him in. 

“Yes. You know it does,” Will grasps Hannibal’s biceps, pressing forward again for more, and Hannibal wraps an arm tightly around his waist and turns them both so that he can press Will into the shower wall. The water cascades down over them and Will inclines his head to expose his neck further to Hannibal’s mouth. “Fuck.”

“Language,” Hannibal reprimands gently, lowering his mouth to Will’s neck once again and sucking hard enough to make him writhe against him. Both hands come up, short nails leaving searing trails up Hannibal’s back, to wrap into his hair and push the steely-grey strands back from his face. Gaining confidence from the slow press of Hannibal’s body to his own, Will lifts a leg and hooks it around the man’s waist, drawing their hips together and eliciting a guttural groan that spills mixed from both their mouths. 

“You make me want to say the most unrefined things,” Will whispers against Hannibal’s lips, gripping on tight and rolling his hips to gain the friction he so desperately seeks. “And let you do the most depraved things to me.”

“And I would do them.” Hannibal nips at his bottom lip and Will exhales hard through his nose - interesting. He enjoys being bitten and Hannibal enjoys biting. What a matched pair they are. “All you have to do is ask.”

“I’m not very, uhm,” Will releases Hannibal and runs a hand through his own hair. His thigh, still hooked around Hannibal’s waist, keeps their hips pressed together in delicious pleasure. “Experienced. It’s been a long time.”

“You’ll be perfect in this as you are in everything else.” Hannibal tells him and Will groans, pressing his face into Hannibal’s shoulder and allowing the water to cascade over him. 

“Stop. I’m not. Not even close.”

“You have so little opinion of yourself.” Hannibal cradles the back of his head and simultaneously presses him more firmly into the wall, rocking his hips and drawing a low groan from Will. “Or of my opinion of you.”

“It’s not  _ that,”  _ Will protests but doesn’t elaborate. Hannibal presses against him again, his own arousal pulsing between his thighs. He’s aching to push Will to his knees or turn him around and take him. His cock throbs at the very idea. 

“Then what exactly is it?” Hannibal leaves a trail of hot kisses down Will’s neck to the mark he had left earlier and bites down, very gently. Will groans. 

“I dunno… Hannibal, fuck, do that again.”

Harder, then. Enough to leave the imprint of his teeth but not break the skin. The steam is swirling in a thick blanket around them, making the moment seem even more intimate and Will’s body pressed against him feels exquisite. Then Hannibal’s eyes fall closed and he has to stop himself from breaking Will’s skin as a tentative hand closes around his erection and strokes, and pleasure overwhelms him. 

“Will…” Hannibal murmurs into his shoulder, biting down gently again and drawing a low gasp from Will’s lips. His hand feels incredible and Hannibal can’t help thrusting into it, gripping Will’s hips and feeling his own length against his thigh. Will tightens his grip, falling into a rhythm and allowing Hannibal to thrust up to meet him and soon the shower stall is filled with gasps and moans as they find each other’s mouths. They don’t kiss properly, just rest against each other, sharing a breath, and Will’s blue eyes seem impossibly clear this close. 

Hannibal’s orgasm builds quickly, so much so that all he can do is hold Will around the waist, bury his face in his wet hair, and cry out quietly as he spills between their bodies. Will continues to stroke him, slowing now, gentler, kissing his cheek and his neck and Hannibal presses him back, into the wall, and finds his mouth to kiss him deeply as aftershocks make him tremble with pleasure. Will is gazing at him with dark, heavy eyes and looks so aroused and debauched that Hannibal takes his mouth again in a searing kiss then, when he feels able to pull himself away from the beautiful heat of Will’s body, he sinks to his knees in front of him. 

Ignoring Will’s gasped little protest, he looks deliberately up through his lashes then leans in, avoiding the hard line of his cock for now and burying his face in the dark curls at the base, mouthing at his balls and inhaling deeply. Will smells incredible. Even the heat of the shower can’t wash away his deep, intrinsic scent between his legs and Hannibal is ravenous for more. He laps at the base of Will’s cock, listening to the hissed inhale from above him, feeling Will part his legs just a little more, giving him access to the most intimate parts of him. 

And Hannibal wastes no more time. He licks up the length of Will’s cock, the shower stream plastering his hair to his head and he slicks it back with a hand then takes hold of Will’s hip to draw him forward. Then he takes him into his mouth and Will tenses, gasps, lets out a low exhale that sounds like a moan and presses helplessly forward into Hannibal’s mouth. This isn’t something he’s ever done before, sucking another man. But Hannibal’s iron-clad self-control allows him to take Will in deeply, to temper his gag reflex, to deep throat him the best any beginner could know how to do. Will tastes incredible. Musky and fresh and perfect and Hannibal can’t get enough. His other hand moves up Will’s thigh, stroking, caressing, before cupping and massaging his balls. 

“Christ,” Will breathes, hands scrabbling on the tile wall in futile desperation for something to grip onto as Hannibal’s thumb moves back, circles his hole, teasing more clear fluid from the tip of Will’s cock for Hannibal to lick up greedily. Then he presses in and Will groans, his head tipping back against the wall and Hannibal laps the head of his cock then takes him back into his mouth, as deep as he can, feeling Will against the back of his throat. The low moan from above him signals that Will is getting close, and Hannibal uses his tongue to bring Will closer and closer to the edge, his thumb pressing deeper inside as Will gasps, loud under the spray of the shower. He looks down and Hannibal meets his eyes through his lashes, lips stretched around Will’s cock as he sucks him, and he sees the blue of Will’s eyes almost eradicated by his dilated pupils. 

“Jesus,  _ fuck _ . You’re gonna make me come,” Will moans, head tipping back against the shower wall and his hand still tight in Hannibal’s hair. His thighs are tensing up beneath Hannibal’s hand and his back arching. “Oh,  _ god,  _ Hannibal…”

Then, with a low groan, Will’s body is gripped by an orgasm so intense his entire body trembles, his ass tightening in spasms around Hannibal’s fingers, his cock pulsing thick streams of creamy come into Hannibal’s mouth. He swallows everything Will gives him, a few drops escaping to drip down his chin and be lost in the steam and warm water of the shower. Above him, Will gasps and pants, his hips jerking as a final drop of come pools on Hannibal’s tongue, then he’s sagging back against the wall and trying in vain to draw in deep breaths. His voice is hoarse when he tries to speak and he gives up, leaning down instead to wipe at Hannibal’s mouth as his cock is reluctantly released. 

Hannibal buries his face in Will’s groin, nuzzling the base of his softening cock, licking at the underside of the shaft until Will squirms, over-sensitive. He tastes and smells incredible, rich and musky and intrinsically  _ him _ and Hannibal laps at him, desperate for more. Will’s spine arches beautifully, hips pushing away from the wall towards Hannibal’s mouth even as he sighs and writhes, trying to nudge him away. His foot slips and he almost falls, a cry of surprise wrenched from his lips, but Hannibal catches him by the hips and holds him steady against the wall. 

“Relax, my love. I’ve got you.” 

He gazes up through wet lashes, locks his gaze with Will who stares back with undisguised adoration in his eyes. Love. Raw, unfiltered, pure. Hannibal breathes in his scent deeply, holds it within his lungs, allowing it to seep into his body. He wants to have Will like this, always. Pliant and relaxed and sated and happy, gazing down at him as though he’s something rare and precious. He wants Will always. 

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, thumbs drawing circles into Will’s hip flexors, mouth kissing sloppily against his stomach and tracing the vertical line of dark hair with his tongue. His hand drops to the cuts on Will’s thigh and he traces them first with fingertips then with his lips, pressing kisses as he goes. Above him, Will releases a shuddering breath and Hannibal imagines he’s crying. “I’ve got you, Will Graham. I will never let you fall.” 

And if they fall, they’ll fall together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was supposed to be 17 chapters but my muse has run wild so it’s going to be closer to 27 by the time I’m done with it. So strap in for the long-haul!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have been updated to reflect an incident in this chapter (that won't be occurring again) so please check them before reading ♥

“What are you drawing?”

Will walks into Hannibal’s downstairs study wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe that feels like the softest garment he’s ever worn. Vivaldi is playing softly in the background, a beautiful string concerto that he vaguely recognises, and the room is characteristically lit by only lamp and fire. He’s got a crystal tumbler of bourbon in each hand and approaches Hannibal, reaching around him to set one glass down and, after a second’s hesitation, wraps an arm slowly around Hannibal’s shoulders from behind and looks down to see what’s taking shape on the paper before him. 

“The  _ Rue de Saint-Sébastien _ ,” Hannibal smudges a line delicately with the edge of his pinky finger. “In the summer. It’s a little street in a village just outside of Cannes in the French Riviera. Wonderful views. Beautiful in the summer. You would enjoy it there, I am certain.”

“Perhaps you can take me,” Will murmurs into his neck, all soft and sleepy from his recent bath, plied with alcohol and comfortable in Hannibal’s home. “One day.”

“I would love to, little cub.” Hannibal reaches up and takes the hand that wraps around to his clavicle. “One day I will see you in summer clothing, arms bared to the sun, sipping wine at my side. You would be ravishing. I would be the envy of every man and women in the Riviera.”

“You’re flattering me now,” Will smiles in spite of himself, knows that Hannibal feels it against his neck. “What do you want?”

“I have to desire something in order to pay you a compliment?” Hannibal turns in his seat now to catch Will by the hand and pull him down into his lap, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You think me so cold?”

“I think I’m unused to the attention.” 

Will reaches for the drawing and pulls it close. It depicts a village street, too narrow for a car to pass down, with quaint buildings with shuttered windows, a small town square with a monument in the centre, and a patisserie with an awning and two wrought iron tables standing outside it. Shafts of sunlight stream down between the buildings and window boxes overflow with flowering plants. It’s picturesque, inescapably beautiful, and Will immediately aches to visit it. Hannibal runs a hand through Will’s damp hair and nuzzles his neck. 

“Did you enjoy your bath? You smell delightful.”

“Yes, very much.” Will remains transfixed by the drawing. It’s unfinished, but he loves that about it. His fingers tighten on the paper reflexively, wanting to hold it close. Hannibal notices and his finger traces the back of Will’s hand. He releases the drawing immediately. “God, I’m so sorry…”

“Darling boy, don’t. It matters not one bit.” Hannibal draws the robe down to kiss Will’s shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“Yes. You’re very talented, but you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Yet your opinion is the one that matters most to me. Keep it. A gift. I will source you a frame.”

“I can’t,” It’s a reflex, to refuse, even as he wants the drawing more than he can remember wanting anything in a long time. He can picture himself there, in the village street on cobblestones, walking with the sun in his eyes and shoulders no longer tensed with anxiety. Hannibal at his side, a hand resting lightly on his lower back. It’s a happy image and he stares at the paper, eyes feeling hot. 

“You can. I see the emotion it ignites in you.” Hannibal tightens his arm at Will’s waist. “I will take you there. You have my word. But for now, I hope the drawing will suffice.”

“Thank you.” The words don’t seem enough so Will turns to plant a shy kiss at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. It’s returned with a smile, given deeper, then Hannibal leans away and pushes a curl off Will’s forehead with a finger. 

“Did you harm yourself while you were bathing, Will?”

The question comes apropos of nothing at all and Will blinks, blindsided and instantly tense with panic. He drops the drawing back onto the desk and stands, tugging the robe tighter around him in protection and running a hand through his hair, agitated. He hadn’t, in truth, but he had thought about it. Had pictured his knife in the top drawer of the bedside table in the bedroom where his messenger bag resides, where the drawers now house a few of his clothes. He bites his lip. Shakes his head slowly and watches as Hannibal studies him. 

“I didn’t. I promise.”

“Did you want to?”

Will doesn’t answer. Hannibal stands and approaches, cupping him under the chin and kissing his cheek. 

“Let me see.”

“You think I’m lying?” Will’s eyebrows shoot up and he takes a half-step back. “I’m not. I didn’t.”

“I believe you. I want to look at your old wounds, check they’re healing as they should. Will you allow me that?”

Will flounders, lost. He has four new cuts to his left thigh, one to his right, and the wound to his wrist is almost healed now. In the two weeks he’s been seeing Hannibal intimately, as more than just psychiatrist and patient, the desire to self-harm has dwindled and he feels that five incidents in fifteen nights aren’t something to sniff at. But equally, he doesn’t want to disappoint. Hannibal knows about them all, all except one, one which was done in his own home yesterday morning. The dogs had barked and scratched at the bathroom door the entire time, listening to their master break down into broken little sobs but prevented from comforting him, held at bay by a wooden barrier. Will had cuddled with them in a giant pile on the bed for hours afterwards, red-eyed and raw before gathering himself to pack a bag, ready to dine and sleep at Hannibal’s home as promised. 

When Hannibal had opened the door, dressed in one of his finest paisley suits with a beautifully clashing tie, he had known at once that something had happened and had enveloped Will into a tight embrace, not letting him go until the tremors had passed and until he was in full control of his breathing again. He hadn’t asked Will to show him. Hadn’t pressed the issue at all. 

Until now.

And of course he’ll allow it because he knows why Hannibal wants to look. It’s out of concern for him, he wants to make sure Will is healing, mind and body. So, jerkily, he nods and moves a step closer, unfastening the belt of the robe and parting it so that his thigh is exposed, the one with the most damage. He keeps as much of himself covered as he can, but Hannibal’s mind doesn’t seem to be easily swayed by his sexuality at this moment. He runs careful fingers over the deepest of the cuts, nodding to himself when he clearly decides it’s healing well. Then he closes Will’s bathrobe, takes his hand and kisses his knuckles.

“Thank you. For your trust.”

Will shrugs, looking down at the ground.

“Thank you for caring. Nobody cares. It’s… It’s nice to know you do.”

“Always, my love.” Hannibal’s eyes glow warmly in the firelight. “Always.”

*

Will looks beautiful, cloaked in his vulnerability, pink-cheeked and pliant and Hannibal aches to kiss him fully. The taste of bourbon is still sharp on his tongue and he wants to replace it with the taste of Will, the smell of him, the touch of his skin, the embrace of his strong, lean arms. Will has been so strong lately, has been smiling more and has been relaxed and happy in Hannibal’s home, and the change in him has been wonderful to see.

They know each other’s bodies intimately now, have explored with mouths and fingers, and Hannibal wakes with Will in his arms more often than not. He’s becoming addicted to the younger man, craves him like oxygen, is feeling increasingly empty and alone when Will spends the nights at Wolf Trap or when he lectures late at the BAU. 

But now, tonight, they’re together and nothing can change that.

Hannibal draws Will back down into his lap and presses a kiss to the back of his neck. One hand presses over Will’s stomach, holding him close, and the other loosens the tie of his bathrobe until it falls open again and Will’s body is exposed to the warm air of Hannibal’s office. He squirms in Hannibal’s arms, pressing back into his chest, yet he’s already aroused. Hannibal can smell the sharp, musky tang of him, can picture him already so hard between his legs without needing to look. He kisses Will’s neck again. 

“Beautiful little cub,” He whispers. “So good for me.”

“Want to be,” Will murmurs, dropping his head and allowing Hannibal to brush a hand through his hair. “Don’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

“I never am,  _ mon coeur, _ ” Hannibal assures him. He tugs the bathrobe off one shoulder, pressing kisses to Will’s warm skin. His hand trails down Will’s upper arm, fingers light, before moving to his chest to rub a thumb over his nipple. Will shivers in his arms. “You could never disappoint me.” 

“I still cut,” Will insists. “I can’t help it. I still see things, I hear things, and I can’t…” He breaks off, breath ragged, aroused beneath Hannibal’s touch yet beginning to wind himself up into a panic. He presses himself back into Hannibal, cradled in the older man’s arms, heart racing beneath his ribs.

“But you don’t cut as often or as deep as you used to,” Hannibal soothes, stroking his skin, trying to calm the spooked man in his arms. Will has gone from relaxed and tranquil to tightly wound and close to hyperventilation in less than a few minutes, all because Hannibal mentioned his self-harm. But what good would it do Will to ignore it? “That’s progress, is it not?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Shouldn’t I have stopped already? Found some other way to deal with it all?” Will twists in Hannibal’s arms to look at him. His pupils are dilated, only the barest ring of blue surrounding them.  

“Healing takes time, Will. It is not linear. You’re doing wonderfully well considering the circumstances and the continued stress placed on you by… others in your life.”

“You mean Jack.” Will blinks, looks down at his hands, at Hannibal’s clasping his. 

“I do mean Jack. Jack Crawford is bad for you and always has been. You know that, and so does he. It has taken an intervention to stop him from calling on you like a hound brought out to sniff out prey for its master.” Hannibal knows that Will won’t be receptive to his next words, and that he’s likely to have a fight on his hands, but he soldiers on regardless. “Jack was very persistent, today especially. I had to instruct him not to call this house again or I would report him for harassment.”

“He called here?” Will looks up at him sharply. “When?”

“Today. A few times this week.”

“He hasn’t called my cell.” Will frowns at him, moving back a little on Hannibal’s lap. “Why would he call you?”

“He knows you’ve been staying here.”

“Oh, he does? And how does he know that?” Now, Will slides off his lap, tugging out of Hannibal’s grip and tying his robe tightly around his waist once more. Any arousal Hannibal could smell on him is long gone, replaced by indignancy and fury. “What have you been telling him about me, Hannibal?”

“That you’re sick and that you need rest.” Hannibal says simply, crossing his legs at the ankles and folding his hands across his stomach. “And that he isn’t to bother you with another case until you’re back to your normal self. He isn’t to push you, even if he does feel you’re saving lives. Even if  _ you _ believe you’re saving lives.”

“I am! I do!” Agitated now, Will paces to the fireplace and leans one hand against it, fist clenched in anger. “You had no right to do this.”

“To do what? To care for you? To do what’s best for you? To  _ want _ what’s best for you?” Hannibal doesn’t move. He’s assessing the situation. Wondering whether bringing himself closer to Will might send him over an edge or draw him back to his side. “You know I love you, Will. I cannot stand by and see you destroy yourself.”

“No. You don’t get to use that to excuse what you did.” Will pounds his fist on the mantelpiece, and an ornamental rabbit skull shudders in its cradle. “If you love someone, you’re honest with them. You don’t decide what’s best for them without their consent. You don’t  _ do _ that, Hannibal! You know that!”

“You feel I was trying to control you.” Hannibal does stand now, uncrossing his legs and approaching Will who flinches like a cornered animal. “Is that it?”

“Yes! You were!”

“For your own sake. Does that mean nothing? You’ll put your own mental and physical health on the line time and time again, and I am meant to just stand beside you and watch? To encourage you? Without comment?” Hannibal moves closer and Will steps to the side, effectively boxing himself into the corner of the room without realising. “You know me better than that.”

“I thought I did.” The words come out thick and choked and Will’s blue eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “I just thought your comments would be directed to me, face-to-face. Not to Jack, behind my back. Who else have you told? That the little fragile Will fucking Graham is so screwed up that he takes it all out on himself? I’m surprised Jack hasn’t had me carted off to the asylum by now.”

“He trusts my judgement. If I felt you were a danger to yourself or to others-”

“Don’t bullshit me, Hannibal!” Will’s voice rises now and breaks. He runs a hand through his hair, across his face; it comes away damp with sweat. “I can’t be here right now. I need to go.”

“I don’t want you to be alone.” Hannibal shifts to widen his stance a little. He’s unsure whether or not he would resort to physical contact to stop Will leaving, whether or not he  _ wants _ Will to leave. But with a burning, deep-set need he knows he wants Will to see why he did this. That he kept Jack at bay for him. For  _ them _ .

“Get out of my way.” Will’s tone has dropped low and there’s danger sparking in his eyes now, the tears gathering to drip down onto his lower lashes. “Let me leave.”

“I’m concerned for your wellbeing in this state. If you truly wish to go, at least let me drive you home.” He reaches for Will’s arm and finds his hand brushed roughly away.

“Don’t touch me. Get out of the way.” 

Cornered and agitated, Will pushes past Hannibal, slamming their shoulders together and sending Hannibal stumbling off to the side and into the desk. The glass of bourbon tips precariously and they both stand frozen, watching as it seems to hang suspended on an edge for an infinite amount of time before falling over onto its side, the amber contents spilling all over Hannibal’s art. 

“Shit,” Will stands immobile, one hand at his lips, watching as Hannibal lunges forward to try and salvage his drawings. “Shit, I didn’t mean - I’m sorry, Hannibal.”

It takes a lot for Hannibal to see red. His experiences in life have tamed and tempered his anger and he’s intimately familiar with caging it even when he’s pushed to his limits. Patients have tested those limits. Victims have tested them. But now, holding the drawing he had done for Will so reverently, with such dedication and dreaming of them walking the streets together, his anger rears it’s head to the surface. He turns on Will so sharply he’s only aware that he’s done it when his hand is fisted in the front of Will’s bathrobe and the younger man’s head is rebounding off the panelled wall behind him. Will’s cry of shock and pain splits the air, cuts through the red haze, and he releases him immediately, stepping back until there’s enough distance between them for Will to slump against the wall, cradling his head, one arm outstretched to keep Hannibal at bay. He looks down at himself: one hand still holds the wet, ruined drawing, now crumpled in a fist, the other shakes with violent tremors. He blinks, expecting this to be a vision and expecting to find himself still standing at his desk with Will apologising behind him, but the scene doesn’t change. 

“Will,” his own voice is thick, choked, his accent strong and he swallows before attempting further words. “Will, I didn’t mean to harm you.”

Silence greets him and he looks up, meeting Will’s blue eyes and seeing fear there for the first time. Fear of him, of what he’s done, and of what he could do. Will hauls himself up straight but his hand remains outstretched - not reaching for Hannibal but as a protective shield. Ready to fight him off if necessary.

“Yes. You did.” 

Will sounds as wrecked as Hannibal feels in this moment. Something unfamiliar is swimming inside him, clawing its way up his throat, and it tastes bitter and sour on his tongue. Regret. In spite of all he’s done, of the lives ended by his hands and the men and women who begged for mercy in their dying moments, he’s never experienced regret. He’s never wanted to retract his actions, has never experienced remorse for anything he’s done. It’s all been right, righteous, for the greater good - and for his own agenda. 

But now, remorse clogs his throat and he wants more than anything to wind time back and allow Will to leave peacefully, for the drawing to remain unspoiled and the dream to still hang between them. But one look at Will’s face, at the pain and betrayal in his eyes, says it all.

“Let me leave,” Will says, and it’s barely above a whisper. He doesn’t wait for an answer - he turns towards the door and Hannibal listens to his footsteps retreat, then climb the stairs to their room where Will’s satchel is slung over a chair, where his clothes are folded neatly in their drawers next to Hannibal’s, where everything had become so goddamn  _ domestic _ and Hannibal had allowed himself to believe that maybe, possibly, Will could become his. That Will would fall so entirely for him that nothing could tear them apart.

Now, something has. And that something is Hannibal himself.

With a snarl so vicious that it would terrify anyone who heard it, Hannibal grabs the nearest item to him - a crystal decanter half-full of his favourite Scotch - and hurls it at the wall. It shatters spectacularly, shards of glass erupting into the air and the amber liquid splashing up the wall, across the floor, coating Hannibal’s clothing. One glass follows it. Then another. Then the desk is upturned, pens and pencils and notebooks taking to the air and papers rising and falling in a flurry until they’re crushed beneath Hannibal’s shoes. The front door opens and slams closed and Hannibal hurls a book towards the noise - it hits the doorframe and the spine ruptures, pages spilling out like clouds, falling to the floor like snowflakes.

Outside, the engine of Will’s car growls to life and Hannibal sinks down into the chair beside the fireplace with his head in his hands, the air thick with the stench of Scotch, fury, and soul-deep pain. 


	13. Chapter 13

In the car on the drive home, Will seethes. Well, part of him seethes. The other part is cold with shock and sadness, with fear as he remembers the savage look on Hannibal’s face as he was grabbed and slammed into the wall. He never imagined such rage could exist in the older man, considering how much care and affection he’s shown Will - but the man he had enraged tonight had been someone else. Someone wearing Hannibal’s face and clothing yet completely removed from the man he’s so enamoured with. And now, chest aching with a cloying combination of loss and pain, he doesn’t know how to move on, how to get past this. He should have stayed, he’s sure. But he couldn’t. He had to get away, get out of Hannibal’s space and retreat back into his own, but now - alone in the cold, dark, silent car, he’s full of regrets.   
  
The night has drawn in close, dark and misty, and Will can’t find it in himself to pay attention to the road. He’s left the city lights of Baltimore behind him and is nearer to Wolf Trap than he is to Hannibal’s home. He knows this route like the back of his hand, could drive it blindfolded, and this helps tonight as he alternates between rage, fear, and bitter sadness. He can’t get the entire incident out of his mind. The glass, falling in slow motion. The amber flood, spilling out from it to destroy Hannibal’s work. The sound his head had made as it hit the panelled wall of Hannibal’s study. He grips the wheel tighter, blinking away a sudden sheen of tears. His thigh pulses, right where the most recent cut is, and he already knows what’s going to happen when he gets home. He’s already dismissed the idea of pulling over and digging his knife out of his bag - the panic and distress building inside him can be tempered long enough for him to get home. But he wants to see his own blood, wants to taste the copper on the air, wants to feel his eyes blur with pained tears and to curl up in the shower and mourn what already feels like a loss. How can he go back to Hannibal now? After what’s gone between them? How can he...   
  
A shadow moves in his peripheral vision and before Will can move to yank the steering wheel, something large and dark leaps out in front of the car and they collide, the impact throwing him against the wheel and splitting his lip open, the sound of crunching metal, breaking glass and something much more sinister echoing through the air. The car skids, swerving off to the side too late, then comes to a stop as Will sits, shocked into immobility, behind the wheel. His breath fogs the air in front of him as he pants hard, close to hyperventilation. His hands are white-knuckled on the wheel and his whole body starts to shake with shock. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus and once they do he wishes they hadn’t. Blood splatters the shattered windshield and for one horrifying moment, he’s convinced he’s hit a person. A human. Fear spikes through him like a lance and he wishes instantly that Hannibal was in the car beside him.   
  
It takes him longer than it should to fumble for the handle with cold hands and stagger from the car. The windshield is shattered, cracks inching out like a spiderweb from the impact point, and Will covers his mouth with his hand, afraid he’s about to be sick. The last few minutes are a blur and he can’t remember if he hit a person or an animal, and terror spikes through him at the thought of seeing a body splayed on the ground.   
  
But it’s not a person. It’s a deer. A white-tailed deer, lying crumpled on the ground in front of Will’s ruined car, and he covers his mouth in a mixture of grief and horror as he stumbles towards it. He had been so wrapped up in his own mind that he hadn’t looked where he was going and now a defenceless animal has paid the price. Legs weakening, he falls to his knees beside the deer and reaches for it, feeling blood and fur beneath his fingers. No, not fur. Feathers. Blinking away a sheen of tears, he feels a sudden rush of icy cold run through him as he looks again at the deer.   
  
Although now, it isn’t a deer. It’s a stag, black as blood in the moonlight, shifting beneath his hands, breath pouring out in hot clouds of steam, and Will catches a cry in his throat and falls back onto his hands, skittering away from it in fear. Blinking hard does nothing to dispel the image and a moan of distress leaves his lips.     
  
The stag lifts its head and stares straight at Will through the bloody film covering its eyes. ‘See?’ It asks him. ‘See?’   
  
Will turns to the side and vomits, the cuts on his thigh burning brightly and his head pounding from where Hannibal had seen it connect with the wall. He collapses onto his back, weak with distress, and stares blankly up at the stars where they push through the gaps in the trees.   
  
*   
  
The remainder of the drive home is torturous. Every time Will glances in the rearview mirror he sees antlers, fur, and red eyes staring back at him. He’s cold all over, filthy from the wet ground, and can still taste bile in his throat from vomiting. His hands grip the wheel so tightly that the muscles in his wrist ache and he doesn’t remember pulling up at home, or the walk from the car to his house.   
  
He sits on the floor in the shower stall for the longest time, the water pounding down on him as it gradually cools, hugging his knees and burying his forehead in his arms. He’s not sure if he cries or not, and if he does then he certainly doesn’t know who he’s crying for. The deer he killed? Possibly. Hannibal? Unlikely. Himself? Will doesn’t cry for himself, never has. He just bears the hand he’s dealt. But this time it’s different. He’d opened himself up to Hannibal in ways he’s never allowed before. He’s allowed the handsome psychiatrist to see him as more than a patient, as more than a friend. He let him in close, closer than he ever imagined they could be.   
  
He remembers how gentle Hannibal was with him when he was injured, in the hours after Royston’s attack, when they were in bed together. Then he remembers the hand that slammed him into the wall and the snarl of fury at his lips. Those lips that had given him such sweet kisses. The way Hannibal’s teeth had looked - for a tenth of a second, Will had been stabbed with the sudden fear that Hannibal wanted to sink his teeth into him. He shivers now at the memory.   
  
He sits on the edge of the bed, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist although he’s still soaking, his hair curling unpleasantly at the nape of his neck and droplets falling between his knees to the floor as he hunches over, a glint of silver in his hand as desperation and sorrow wells up inside him and spills over. The towel falls open and he stares down at his body, at the scars on his stomach, the most recent ones on his thigh, on his own soft cock nestled in dark curls and he remembers the way Hannibal used to touch him. Emotion chokes him, building up behind his ribs until he’s doubled over in pain, barely able to draw a breath. The blade of the knife meets his leg and the skin breaks.   
  
Will isn’t aware of how deep he’s cutting. His vision is blurred with tears and all he knows is that the pain in his thigh is helping, it’s helping, dammit, why isn’t it helping? He presses harder with the blade - just a little harder, he promises himself, then he’ll stop. Through skin, through fat, through connective tissue, down to muscle.   
  
He doesn’t stop. And the blade slips. Then there’s blood. So much of it, slicking his hands and his leg and the floor and he starts to shake, violently. The knife clatters to the floor, vanishes somewhere under the bed, and the bleeding won’t stop.   
  
Somehow, he manages to find his phone, falling to his knees on the floor while one trembling hand clasps the wound that is deeper than he meant it to be, and manages to dial with slick fingers.   
  
“Hannibal?”   
  
“Will.” Hannibal doesn’t allow him to speak. “I’m in Wolf Trap. Letting you leave like that, I shouldn’t have done it. We need to talk, Will. Please. Allow me to apologise. I had no wish to harm you, and I-”   
  
“Hannibal,” he interrupts him, his words thick in his mouth and the room swaying unpleasantly as he leans back against the bed. “Hurry. Please.”   
  
*   
  
Hannibal Lecter doesn’t know fear. He’s made it his business throughout his life not to be affected by such a concept, and to conquer anything that threatened his well being with it. He’s afraid of nothing, of nobody, and hasn’t been since he was a young child, since before the war, since before his sister was brutally taken from him.   
  
But now, in the ambulance at Will’s side with blood smeared on both their hands and their faces, he feels the unfamiliar, hollow, long-forgotten sensation of terror clawing at his chest. Will is pale and his rib cage is rising and falling too slowly - he’s lost a lot of blood and the paramedics are talking about blood transfusions when they reach the Johns Hopkins Hospital, mere minutes away. It’s the hospital Hannibal had instructed them to take Will to, and they’d done his bidding once he’d snarled at them that he once was a surgeon there and he wants Will in the best hands possible. Since then, he’s sat silently in the ambulance, held Will’s limp hand when permitted, and swallowed his own low whines of distress which come to him in waves.   
  
Hannibal Lecter does not feel fear, and he does not feel distress.   
  
He didn’t, until Will Graham stumbled into his life and completely by accident became his alpha and his omega. Now fear and distress have him in their jaws and he clenches his teeth, the bolt of his jaw bulging as his eyes stray to the floor and the blood pooling there. So much of it. Too much. An oxygen mask covers Will’s mouth and nose and his lashes lie still on pallid cheeks. He had lost consciousness in Hannibal’s arms and the paramedics had stopped short with fright at the keening cry that had escaped Hannibal’s lips as he tried and failed to wake him again.   
  
The human body can stand to lose thirty per cent of its blood and recover, with a transfusion. Sometimes that figure can be pushed to forty per cent, but a transfusion is an almost immediate requirement for a haemorrhage of that magnitude. Hannibal can’t gauge how much blood Will is losing since so much of it is smeared on his own bedroom floor and is soaking into his floorboards in front of his dogs’ eyes at this very moment, but he knows it’s a lot. Thirty per cent, certainly. More, likely. He’d managed to staunch the bleeding by the time the ambulance arrived, but not well enough. His hands had trembled, his heart had raced and his blood had pounded in his ears, distracting him, and Will’s low gasps and cries and apologies had belayed him from doing the job he knows so well.   
  
And for that, his fury at himself is unparalleled.   
  
His lip curls in a snarl as he thinks about it all and his nails dig sharp crescent moons into Will’s cool hand. How could he be so foolish as to let himself fall this far for another, so far that his instincts and abilities are compromised? He swore once that he would never let it happen, never let himself become someone whose self-control lapses in the face of someone he loved. And now, not only has it happened entirely but his paltry attempt at attending to Will’s wound might now cost Will his life. And if Will is gone from the world, what is left for Hannibal in it?   
  
A life for a life, Will had once said. There would be some poetry in Hannibal’s life ending at the tip of the blade that took Will’s. But not yet. This is not his design. Will Graham cannot die because of Hannibal’s love for him. That would be a loss that Hannibal could not withstand, and his taste for blood and vengeance and death would not be easily sated if that came to pass.   
  
The ambulance sirens scream as they approach the hospital. Hannibal’s hands are wet with blood. And beside him, Will lies dying.   
  
*   
  
Later, much later, Hannibal is sitting in his shirt and waistcoat, sleeves rolled up and his hair a mess, jacket thrown haphazardly off to the side somewhere and his lower lip bitten raw. He’s in Will’s private room at Johns Hopkins, the blinds drawn down low, settled in a leather chair with a table full of magazines and flowers beside him, yet he can’t take his eyes from the pale figure lying motionless in the bed before him.   
  
Will’s hand is cold in his, his skin pale with blood loss, and he hasn’t moved in hours. His lashes are inky on his cheeks, lips ashen gray, and Hannibal would give anything to turn back the clock. Further back than when Will had been discharged from the emergency room and transferred up to a private room in intensive care. Further back than when Hannibal had broken the lock on his front door and heard Will sobbing from his bedroom. And further back still than when Hannibal had grabbed him, back in the warmth and safety of his office in Chandler Square, to slam him into the wall and show Will a hint of who he could truly be. If he could take anything back, it would be that.   
  
He sits for a long time, eyes on Will’s face, unmoving himself and still as a statue. Nurses come and go, checking vitals, checking the bandages encasing Will’s thigh, cleaning the wound and testing the stitches. He’s given something in his IV line and it’s a testament to how shaken up Hannibal truly is that he doesn’t demand to know what. His eyes are for Will only, and when the nurse has finished her checks he murmurs his request that they be left alone now. The nurse, dark-hair in a ponytail and petite in stature, nods her reassurance and leaves, then the room feels too large and too quiet with just the pair of them in it. Hannibal’s palm is damp with sweat, generated solely from his own body heat as Will is still cold as death. He’ll warm up, once his body begins to recover and attempt to replenish the blood that now lies dry and flaky on the wooden floors in Wolf Trap. But that may be a while.   
  
Outside, the weather has turned. It’s as though God himself has noticed Will’s plight and decided to show his mourning and his rage. Rain cascades against the window pane in violent slashes and, above them, the clouds groan and forks of lighting illuminate everything they touch. The snowfall on the ground is melting quickly, drenched by the rain, yet the wind will be icy and bitter as it lashes the faces and hands of those who dare walk in it. The weather matches Hannibal’s mood perfectly.   
  
Hours later, Hannibal has endured two cups of the hospital’s coffee and his suffering has paid off: Will stirs, lashes fluttering, eyes opening to gaze vacantly at the ceiling, and his heart rate picks up so quickly that the monitor bleeps. Hannibal reaches over to shut the noise off, moving to the edge of his chair to clasp Will’s hand tightly in both of his.   
  
“Will? Can you hear me?”   
  
Pale blue eyes surrounded by bloodshot whites turn to focus on him and Will blinks, evidently unsure of what he’s seeing and where he is. Hannibal reaches across to run his fingers through Will’s matted curls, allowing a smile to tug at his lips when the younger man leans into the touch. He doesn’t speak for a while, just considers Hannibal and his surroundings, blinking owlishly and drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He dozes off once or twice and Hannibal allows it, spends his time instead stroking Will’s hair and forehead, and kissing his knuckles.   
  
“Darling,” he whispers to the silent room. “How could I allow this to happen?”   
  
Time passes. Alana Bloom visits although Hannibal doesn’t allow her to enter Will’s room. She returns with a travel bag of Will’s, stuffed with soft pajama pants and a gray t-shirt, a photograph of Winston on the top of the pile.   
  
“I thought he might like this,” she says, misty-eyed. Hannibal loathes her in this moment. “When he wakes up.”   
  
She’s brought clothing for Hannibal as well and he takes it grudgingly. He doesn’t want Alana’s help to care for Will. Will is his and his alone, but he cannot leave the hospital right now, can barely stand to leave Will’s room for even a moment, so heading home to pick up clothing is beyond comprehension. So for that, he’s vaguely thankful.   
  
When he returns, changed and freshened up thanks to the sink in the small adjoining bathroom, Will is stirring and trying to sit up. Hannibal moves quickly to his side and supports him with an arm behind his shoulders, pressing the button to incline the bed and fluffing up the pillows until Will is settled against them, ashen-faced with the effort and sweat beading on his forehead.   
  
They don’t talk. They stay with hands linked, Hannibal sitting close to the edge of the bed, and Will watches him with sad blue eyes. It seems apparent that he remembers some, if not all, of what happened.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he says finally, licking his dry lips and looking through Hannibal, dead-eyed and weary.   
  
“You have nothing to apologise for, Will,” Hannibal tells him, leaning in to kiss his knuckles. “My darling. I’m so thankful you called me when you did. I dread to think…”   
  
“Don’t.” Will cuts him off hoarsely, coughing, his throat no doubt sore from the intubation tube, required during his surgery to close the wound. He’d gone into cardiac arrest just as the ambulance had pulled into Johns Hopkins’ parking lot and Hannibal’s wild cry of desperation had almost been audible at the main doors to the hospital. “I can’t, Hannibal. I can’t do this anymore.” The sadness etched into every line of his face makes Hannibal ache. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”   
  
They lapse into silence again, and Hannibal isn’t sure if it’s companionable or constricted by grief. He knows how he feels - but for once, working out what’s going on in Will’s mind is agonisingly difficult.   
  
“I want you to consider voluntary admission to a psychiatric facility,” he says, eventually. The words are painful as they pass his lips. He doesn’t want to do this to Will, to suggest this, to enforce it on him if required. Being apart from him is going to be torture and not the kind that Hannibal can savour. But he’s beyond Hannibal’s care, and if it saves his life…   
  
“What?” Will sits up straighter - at least, his shoulders straighten and he pushes himself up an inch on his pillows - and flinches as no doubt his stitches pull. His voice cracks and he swallows to clear his dry throat before speaking again, small and hurt. “You think I’m that kind of crazy?”   
  
“I don’t think you’re any kind of crazy.” He squeezes Will’s fingers, winces as they’re pulled away and Will folds in on himself. If he could, he would turn his back to Hannibal and curl up, retreating into his imagination and leaving the pain of reality behind for a while. But fatigue prevents him from doing such a thing so all he can do it stare at his hands, watching as fine tremors wrack his fingers, and process Hannibal’s words. “But I cannot help you, Will. I have reached the limits of my ability to help you deal with your cutting. I am afraid that if we persist as we are, you will do something neither of us can pull you back from. And I could not bear the loss.”   
  
“How selfless of you,” Will says, quiet and hurt.   
  
“I couldn’t save you.” Hannibal exhales all his anger and distress into the vast, pale room. “If it had been down to me alone, you would have died.”   
  
“This isn’t about you. Don’t take this onto your shoulders. This is about me and how fucked up I am. Don’t you dare make this about you.”   
  
The words are said with no venom at all, just exhaustion and sadness, and Hannibal aches to hold him. Will plays listlessly with the plastic bracelet around his wrist with his name and date of birth stamped on it. He’s ashen grey and has dark shadows beneath his eyes, hair plastered to his forehead in clumps of curling wildly out of control. Hannibal gives in to his own needs and moves to sit on the edge of Will’s bed, taking his hand. Will’s fingers curl around his and he looks even more morose than when Hannibal was sitting three feet away.

“Will you go?” Hannibal asks him, throat tight with pain and Will presses into his side, fearful and trembling, reminding Hannibal of a caged bird giving in to his captivity as he nods slowly, breath coming in cracked rasps.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and Hannibal leans in, cupping the back of Will’s head and holding him close against his chest.   
  
“No, little cub. I’m sorry. I am so deeply sorry.”   
  
He moves slowly, rearranges them until he’s lying at Will’s side, dark curls spilling onto his chest and weak hands clinging to his clothing. Will’s voice fails him and he sobs his defeat, low and quiet, and Hannibal hushes him and holds him, eyes focused on nothing much, as they wait for the worst of the storm to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Will :(


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. We will see more of Will's time in hospital, and of the repercussions from Hannibal turning on him (much more to come about that; Will is not as forgiving as he may seem nor should he be) but not just yet.  
> 2\. This chapter contains some beautiful art by the fabulous [Ezra Blake](https://ezrablake.com/), thank you for the hard work ♥  
> 3\. Merry Christmas, ya filthy Fannibals.

Will is released from the psychiatric hospital in Baltimore two days before Christmas Eve. He’s tired, has dark circles under his eyes and a small bag slung over his shoulder, and Hannibal meets him in the entrance hallway. He kisses him on the forehead, brushing his hair back and holding him close with an arm around his shoulders. Will presses into him, just for a moment, then leans back and meets Hannibal’s eyes. His hair is gently curling, a little longer than before his admission, and Hannibal regards him carefully. 

“You look well. More at peace with yourself.” 

It isn’t entirely true. Will looks exhausted and too thin, the line of his collarbone visible beneath his thin sweater. Hannibal will have to feed him up. But his eyes seem less haunted, and he gazes up at Hannibal openly, doesn’t hide away and avert his gaze as he’d been so accustomed to doing whenever Hannibal brought up a sensitive subject.

“I feel a little better. More… human. That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“Absolutely.” Hannibal’s arm comes around his shoulders again to lead him out to the car and Will leans gratefully into his side, his bag sliding seamlessly from his shoulder into Hannibal’s hand. The Bentley is parked nearby and Hannibal holds the door for him. “I’ve missed you very much.”

Will sinks into the leather seat, closing his eyes, unable to articulate exactly how much he missed Hannibal when he was separated from him. Hannibal closes the door and gets in the driver’s side; the Bentley purrs to life and they make their way through the city streets to Hannibal’s home. Will dozes in the seat, then turns sleepily to Hannibal, head lolling against the headrest.

“How are the dogs?”

“Fine. Alana is caring for them very well. Although I suspect they miss you. Winston has been pining.”

“He’s not the only one,” Will picks at his fingernails. “I missed you.”

“I missed you every second of every day, little cub.” Hannibal takes his hand, interlinks their fingers and squeezes warmly. “I could hardly sleep without you by my side.”

“Really?” Will’s pale blue eyes regard him with open trust. “Me neither. It was always cold in that place.”

“Then I shall endeavour to keep you as warm as possible when we get home, to make up for it.”

Will gives him a sideways smile. “I’m sure you will.”

In the kitchen, Will stands at the counter looking a little lost as Hannibal busies himself with making them both coffee. He looks as though he’s forgotten what to do, how to be here, and Hannibal won’t have that. He pulls a chair out for Will and ushers him into it while he makes them both a basic brunch of Eggs Royale with both smoked salmon and bacon, coffee, and freshly squeezed orange juice, all of which Will devours as though he hasn’t eaten in weeks. 

“God, that’s good.” His groan of delight is almost orgasmic as he picks up a rasher of crisped bacon and crunches into it with closed eyes. “I’d started to forget what real food tastes like.”

Watching Will enjoy his food so much makes Hannibal want to devour him there and then, in any and every way possible. He’s certain the food served in hospital was not like his own - in both taste and source - and having Will back at his table to appreciate his culinary artistry is a dream come true in itself. 

They don’t take long to make it to the bedroom. Hannibal is washing up diligently when warm fingers prise the last plate from his hand and he’s turned and kissed so passionately that his breath is stolen from him. In turn, he pins Will to the counter and ravished his mouth, dragging him up until Will is seated on the countertop, thighs encasing Hannibal’s hips, and from there it’s only a short stumble to the bedroom. 

Will begs wordlessly for Hannibal’s fingers, climaxing with a desperate cry with two fingers deep inside him and a thumb massaging his rim. Hannibal follows him moments later, coating Will’s softening cock and tender balls with his release and they fall into each other, panting. A shower is a requirement and they whisper how much they’ve missed each other amid sweet kisses. They dress in warm cashmere and cotton and lounge beside the fire in Hannibal’s study with wine and whiskey, companionably quiet, Will relaxed and loose-limbed and Hannibal stroking and touching every inch of him he can reach. 

“What do you usually do for Christmas?” Will mumbles and Hannibal’s arms close around him just a little tighter. The flickering fire sets the lines of both their faces into shadow. 

“I entertain,” Hannibal says simply, murmuring the words into a mess of dark curls. “A few acquaintances, usually. Jack and Bella. Alana. Others you may know by sight. What are your plans, my dear?”

“Oh, big plans. The biggest. Huge, in fact.” Will huffs out a cool laugh, hurt and loneliness coiling in his chest at the memory of his last few Christmases, spent alone in his home, drinking himself to sleep in the early hours of the following mornings. “Me and the dogs. Gourmet dinner. Sausage, mac and cheese, whiskey. Very grand. It’d give your little dinner party a run for its money.”

Hannibal laughs into Will’s hair. The stay in the psychiatric hospital hasn’t robbed him of his wry sarcasm, and for that he’s glad. His Will is still there, wry and sharp-tongued and perfect, just as he always is. 

“I was hoping you’d accompany me this year. To my ‘little dinner party’.  The spot for guest of honour is regrettably empty.” He kisses Will’s temple. “I had hoped you would occupy it.”

Will shifts in his arms then stills, suddenly tense. Hannibal’s hands run soothingly up his arms to massage his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d fit in very well with your society friends.”

“Then I shall cancel my plans and spend the day solely with you.”

Will twists to stare at him, incredulous. “You’re serious.”

“Entirely. I would rather spend the day with you than be surrounded by acquaintances and know you’re all alone many miles away.” Hannibal kisses his cheek. “I love you, little cub.”

“I know. But that’s…” Will feels his cheeks heat and gazes down at their intertwined fingers in his lap. “You never say ‘friends’.” He ventures curiously. “Always ‘acquaintances’. Why?”

“Because I have and require very few true friends. The rest of them are nice enough and I enjoy their company but my interest in them ends there.” 

“And what am I?” He asks, unable to resist, a smirk tugging at his lips. God, it feels so long since he’s smiled properly, laughed. Let go of his pain and just  _ laughed _ . 

“You?” Hannibal noses at his hair with a wry huff of laughter. “You, my dear, are fishing for compliments, are you not?”

“I’m a good fisherman, Hannibal.” Will is smiling in earnest now and Hannibal moves the so that Will is lying back against the pillows, the older man propped up on an elbow above him. 

“Indeed.” Hannibal leans in to kiss him but diverts at the last second to nuzzle at his neck and Will whines indignantly. “Will you do me the honour of dining with me this Christmas? It would make me extremely happy.”

“Hannibal. You know I don’t do well with people. Especially now,” Will sighs. “And this sounds like a situation that may require me to be sociable.”

“Darling boy. It will. But I know you’ll enjoy it.” Hannibal kisses his jawline. “Please?”

“I can’t come.” Will sighs, relaxing back into Hannibal’s arms and watching the fire slowly die to nothing but glowing embers. “I have nothing to wear.”

“My darling,” Hannibal tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “How you underestimate me.”

*

“I have a gift for you,” Hannibal says and Will turns, startled, to see him standing in the doorway in black trousers and a white shirt, open-collar. He’s half-dressed and is holding a slim grey box, eyes taking in Will’s appearance with approval. “You look exquisite. The suit fits you perfectly.”

“It should,” Will tugs on his collar, frustrated by his ongoing battle with tie. “It cost more than my house.”

“Perhaps not quite that much,” Hannibal enters his own guest room slowly, admiring Will as he turns back to the mirror and returns to his task. “Do you need assistance?”

Christmas morning has dawned crisp and bright, and Will woke early with the sunrise and lay beside Hannibal as he slept on, watching the sunlight play across his face. His bedroom at the psychiatric hospital had been cool and sparse, cold gray walls with no artwork and just a simple desk and wardrobe pushed against the wall. The lack of stimulation had been so intense that he’d begged for more reading material than the basic classic novels that he found in the desk drawers, which he’s already read cover-to-cover many times. He had laid down two ground rules to Hannibal when he agreed to hospitalisation: no medication and no group therapy. But by the end of the first week he’d been roped into an art therapy class and had found solace in recreating one of his designs for his fishing flies back at home in Wolf Trap. The rest and respite from the stress of everyday life had been cathartic, and he had spoken with Hannibal daily. Upon his release, he’d worried the world would have moved on without him. But it seems that Hannibal had put his own life on hold in favour of waiting for Will. 

Now, they stare at each other, Hannibal with warmth in his eyes and Will tense with nerves. Guests will be arriving in an hour and Will isn’t ready, and he doesn’t know if he can do this. He turns back to the mirror and scrutinises his own appearance critically. Hannibal turns him so they’re facing each other and adjusts his tie, turning the two draped lines of fabric into a perfect Windsor knot in seconds.

“I didn’t know I could look like this,” Will whispers to his reflection and Hannibal wraps an arm around him from behind, resting their heads together and they gaze at each other’s reflection, quiet for a moment. 

“I am truly sorry,” Hannibal says. “For laying a hand on you. It will never happen again.”

“It’s fine,” Will hears himself reply, blue eyes still fixed on Hannibal in the mirror. “I know. I know it won’t.”

“It is far from fine. My actions were unacceptable and I will spend as much time as it takes to make it up to you.” Hannibal kisses his cheek and moves away; Will misses his warmth immediately. “Perhaps I may start with your Christmas gift.” He extends a hand and Will stares at the slim box, lost for words. “Would you like to open it, or shall I?”

“You. Please.” He’s so overwhelmed by everything that he’s sure his hands won’t work properly and he’ll probably drop the box. 

Hannibal leans in and kisses Will on the mouth then makes a show of untying the pale ribbon and lifting the lid of the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, is a cream silk scarf and Will’s hand reaches out of its own accord and he drags the fabric through his fingers in wonder. It’s beautifully soft and he wants to press his cheek to it but feels that wouldn’t be proper. 

“It’s… Hannibal, thank you,” is what he says, and Hannibal discards the box in favour of holding up the scarf and gesturing to Will’s neck. 

“May I?”

Throat constricted with affection and the general feeling of being totally overwhelmed, all Will can do is watch as Hannibal leans in to drape the scarf around his neck, taking a little extra time to make sure it’s in the perfect place, before kissing Will gently on the mouth and stepping back to look at him, their hands linked together. 

“Beautiful. You’ll be the envy of everyone here tonight.”

The familiar panic claws at his diaphragm and Will closes his eyes, breathing deeply to steady himself. That’s what he’s most afraid of: being the centre of everyone’s attention, being stared at, even if it is in envy rather than disdain and curiosity. 

“May I have a minute alone?” It comes out strangled and Hannibal nods in understanding. 

“Of course, little cub. Take as much time as you need. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Hannibal leaves him alone in the guest room and it feels strangely empty without him. Will turns back to his reflection and studies himself. His hair is tamed and he’s clean-shaven; he rubs his chin curiously. He feels younger like this, more vulnerable, and he knows exactly how he’ll look to the guests at the party. The young man on the arm of the wealthy, distinguished host, dressed in a handmade suit and sipping wine more expensive than anything he owns. It creates a strange frisson of excitement within him. Hannibal had commissioned the suit for him while he was in the hospital, trusting somehow that Will would spend Christmas with him and that he would acquiesce to wearing clothing picked out and handmade for him by someone else, to someone else’s taste. And, naturally, he has. Because Hannibal asked. 

He breathes deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth, as he was taught in hospital, and it seems to help calm his nerves somewhat. The knot in his chest stops tightening, at least. He levels his reflection with a gaze, strong-jawed and stoic. He can do this. Socialise. Enjoy himself. Be who Hannibal wants him to be. 

He takes his time walking down the hallway then descends the stairs, fingers trailing down the rail. He can hear the soft hum of voices - he’s been alone up there for longer than he realised and feels a pinch of panic at the realisation. Hannibal must be angry with him for lingering, leaving him to greet his guests alone. 

Yet at the bottom of the staircase, Hannibal stands waiting for him, looking unfairly handsome in a rich, black tuxedo that seems to somehow catch the light at every angle, hands clasped behind his back and a welcoming smile at his lips as he watches Will approach. 

“Merry Christmas, Will.”

As he reaches the bottom step, Hannibal reaches for his hand and lifts it to kiss his knuckles. Will blushes scarlet but allows it, warmth curling in his chest when Hannibal’s arm comes around his waist and they walk together into the drawing room where a handful of guests mill around and waiters in tuxedos offer canapes and champagne. He scans the room instantly, an unbreakable habit, seeing Jack and Alana, Bella, and some of Hannibal’s society friends that he knows by sight but cannot name. He feels out of place and anxious but with Hannibal pressed warmly to his side, he knows anything is possible - including surviving a society party on Christmas day. 

A glass of warm apple cider is pressed into his hand and Hannibal kisses his temple seeming not to care about the eyes on him. Flushing, Will empties the glass in almost one gulp, colouring at the amused look on Hannibal’s face.

“Sorry. Dutch courage,” he says and Hannibal shakes his head ruefully. 

“I shall fetch you another. I will only be a moment, little cub. Try and mingle if you can.” 

Then Hannibal is gone and Will is alone, lingering at the edge of the room and trying to blend into the expensive wallpaper. He almost bolts from the room when he sees Jack making a beeline for him, dressed in a deep plum suit and black tie, looking more attired for a funeral than a Christmas celebration. Alana is hot on his heels in a red dress and black blazer, wearing heavier make-up than Will is used to and it takes him a moment to realise he’s staring. But she’s smiling and it seems genuine, then they’re right in front of him and his window of escape has closed.

“We’ve been busy in your absence, Will,” Jack says, his dark eyes lingering on Will’s suit, his scarf, Hannibal’s hand on his waist. “We could have used your help.”

“What he means to say,” Alana elbows the older man hard in the ribs. “Is that we missed you. Merry Christmas. And we’re glad you’re feeling better.”

“Yes. That’s what I meant. Merry Christmas,” Jack says shortly. Will takes in the stress lines at the corners of his eyes, his tense posture. The way he’s holding his glass and his spine. The frown lines and the downturned lips, and he knows instantly that not all is well.

“Something’s happened,” he says, in spite of every instinct screaming at him not to ask. “Something you’re not telling me.”

Alana opens her mouth, her expression one of sincerity even as she begins to shake her head. But Jack beats her to it.

“Yes, it has. Three kills in as many weeks. Trophies were taken from each of the bodies, and the victims displayed grotesquely like some form of art for us to find.” Jack sips his drink, seeming to contemplate his next words. “And we’ve seen it all before. We’ve seen this killer before.” Jack sighs. “We haven’t seen anything from him for years. I thought - hoped - he’d died or moved on.”

A warm hand comes to rest on Will’s hip and he relaxes back against Hannibal’s shoulder, taking the proffered glass of hot mulled wine and drinking from it deeply. He’s aware of Jack’s eyes trailing across him, taking in his proximity to Hannibal and their familiarity. There’s something in his gaze that he can’t read, that even his empathy cannot latch onto, and it makes him frown curiously. 

“This doesn’t sound like a conversation one should be having at a dinner party at Christmas,” Hannibal says and Will picks up the note of disapproval in his voice. “Please, Jack. Let’s save work for another time.”

“Will asked,” Jack replies levels and Will bites his tongue to stop himself from telling Hannibal that, actually, he hadn’t. “And it's a conversation I wish we didn’t have to have at any time, but now seems as good as ever. I have a killer on my hands and the one person I needed to take a look at the crime scenes was unavailable.”

Hannibal’s hand tightens on Will’s hip. Jack’s voice is thick with disdain and Will is caught between the desire to tell Jack exactly what he’s been struggling with, and the desire to just walk away. 

“I don’t want Christmas ruined for Will by discussions of the macabre.” Hannibal is saying and Will hopes his gratitude is palpable. “Please, Jack. As your host, I am asking you to curtail this discussion and pick it up at another time.”

“Very well. I’ll make it brief.” Clearly put out yet loathe to be rude to the man cooking his Christmas lunch, Jack turns to Will. “We know him. An old adversary, one who enjoyed taunting us in the past then vanishing into the ether. But he’s reared his head again and this time,” His knuckles whiten as he grips the glass a little too tightly. “I’m going to catch him if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Who is he?” Will hears himself ask. Behind him, Hannibal’s hand is soothing on his waist, thumb stroking his skin through the fabric of his suit. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he was sinking back into the web of Jack Crawford and the BAU, but he didn’t realise it would happen this quickly. Yet he can’t help but want to know who this man is and who he targets. How he kills.  _ Why  _ he kills. He wants to know him. And by the way Hannibal pulls him just a little closer, holds him a little more possessively, he knows it too. 

Jack levels his gaze when he looks at Will. 

“No doubt you’ve heard of him before. You’ve probably taught your students about him in your classes.”

“Who is he?” Will insists. Around them, the room seems to have gone quiet. Jack looks almost apologetic, glancing from his own glass to Hannibal then back to Will with dark, burning eyes. 

“We call him The Chesapeake Ripper.”

END PART I.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this ends part one. Part two will pick up in the New Year. Happy holidays, everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/coffeeandcas) if you want to come and talk to me. Please do, I love hearing from you all!


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